


my heart's a stereo (and this melody is meant for you)

by Zayz



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 00:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 122,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6135858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zayz/pseuds/Zayz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis Tomlinson, an ex-boybander now stuck in the rut of a comfortable has-been, gets the chance to resuscitate his career when a pop star asks him to write a duet for her highly-anticipated comeback album. Through a chance encounter, he finds a quirky lyricist in Harry Styles, the curly-haired baker and former writer with an above-average sense of rhyme and inexplicable interest in personal questions.</p><p>Or: the Music & Lyrics AU that no one asked for, in which Louis is Hugh Grant, and Harry is Drew Barrymore, and the slow burn is (hopefully) worth the wait.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is it. The Fic. If you’ve been anywhere near my Tumblr in the last eight months, you know that I have suffered and toiled mightily. For many personal reasons, I didn’t want this story to be a WIP – which meant I had to actually, you know, finish it. For many personal reasons, that has been momentous.
> 
> Thank you’s are in order, big time, if you can indulge me a minute: Dessy, for being excited about this story from the word “go.” Rachel, for kindly explaining to me how headshots work. Gym Class Heroes and Adam Levine, for the song that I lifted the title from. Bon Iver, for creating the two albums that served as the most perfect writing soundtracks. All the Larry fandom writers, for posting their work and nourishing my feels for the last year. All my buds on Tumblr, for putting up with my whining. Jones and Saya, writer ladies in chief, for all that you do, all that you are, and all that you make me want to be. And of course, my soul-twin Ari: thank you for torturing me with headcanons, rooting for me when I was tired, and getting me hooked on this fandom in the first place. That last one, especially – can’t love/hate you enough.
> 
> Massive, enormous love and thanks to C, brave beta extraordinaire, for all the invaluable editing, chit-chat and advice that got me over the finish line. Without you, I would still be ignorant about the magic of Google docs and I would have given up on this story a long, long time ago. You are a miracle, and I am so grateful for all the time and energy you invested in this project. Thank you for believing in my story, and in me.
> 
> And!! Thank you so much to @be-brave13 for her amazing YouTube video, giving melody and voice to the lyric mash-up I included towards the end of the story. Here is the link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hPACXHJTlJ4&feature=youtu.be. It's fantastic, you guys. Seriously.
> 
> THE ALL-IMPORTANT DISCLAIMER: though I use the names of real people, my story and I are in no way affiliated with those people, and I mean no harm or defamation to any of them. Also, I demand in no uncertain terms that the lot of you refrain from sending this story to One Direction or anyone related to them personally or professionally. What happens in fandom should stay in fandom.

 

 

“So basically, what you’re saying is, you want me to battle dehydration and inflated egos on a desert island, doing all manner of dangerous and unsanitary tasks, for eight weeks, all for the mere _opportunity_ to sing a few songs on VH1?”

The words come out deadpan, the end of the phrase quirking upward in dry amusement. Louis honestly doesn’t mean any harm by it – the idea paints a comic picture, after all – but the eight executives in the room start squirming, exchanging uncomfortable glances. The wall behind Louis’s side of the table is mostly window, so as the sun shifts from behind a cloud, the light goes directly into the executives’ eyes, burns the back of Louis’s head.

“We think it’s going to be a huge hit,” the man next to Louis – Ben – says with practiced defensiveness. “The network is really excited about it.”

“About _Survivor: Has-Been Edition_?”

The impish delight in Louis’s voice sends a flood of color to Ben’s face.

He splutters, “Well, it tested well with the focus groups, and it’s—”

Fortunately, at this point, Eleanor decides to intervene.

“Thank you for the pitch, Mr. Winston, we have a lot to consider.” Her smile is all cool, professional sweetness, never quite reaching her eyes, as she rises to her feet, places a hand on Louis’s shoulder. It’s clearly a signal for the meeting to end and Louis to leave, but Ben bounces up as though ejected by a spring, eyes wide with alarm. A couple of the other executives rise as well, still exchanging glances.

“We don’t mean ‘has-been’ as an insult, Ms. Calder,” Ben hastens to explain. “It was meant to be – well, tongue-in-cheek. In tune with the popular vernacular of our target audience, if you will. We admire all of Mr. Tomlinson’s accomplishments, during his time with One Direction and afterwards, and there was never any intention of disrespect here, none at all.”

Louis can’t contain his laughter anymore; it explodes out of him like a firework of mirth, snapping all eyes in the room to his face. He, too, stands.

“I’m not offended, Ben, you don’t need to worry about that,” he says easily. “You tapped into exactly the right vernacular! I am indeed a has-been, complacent and content with the notion that all my worthwhile accomplishments lie in my past rather than my future. In fact, I thank you for this refreshingly frank reminder.”

“We’ll be in touch,” Eleanor cuts in, digging her grip into Louis’s shoulder and steering him away from the table. Ben, still pink, offers a half-hearted hand to shake, but she pushes Louis out in front of her, putting her body between Ben’s hand and Louis’s. She doesn’t look back as they exit the meeting room, and head out to the elevator.

“ _God,_ that was dreadful,” she groans as soon as they’re out of earshot. “As though I would _ever_ want you on a has-been _Survivor_ show! Just who the fuck does he think we are?”

Louis shakes his head, still chuckling. Since the break-up of One Direction eight years ago, he has developed a certain predilection for binge-watching bad reality television over cheap wine, and he’s gotten drunk to far worse than washed-up musicians on desert islands. But Eleanor looks so distraught – so un-Eleanor-like in her distress – that the situation strikes him as hilarious rather than mortifying.

“How did they even get you into that room? Just curious.” He pushes the button to call the elevator as she pulls out her phone, starts texting furiously.

“They said it was a reunion show for pop acts of the 90s, still under development. They said we’d get details at this meeting in person. I should have known! I am going to _kill_ Winston, I swear.”

Her tone is one Louis knows well – heated like a stew on the stove, bubbling its way to proper boiling. “Don’t worry about it, El,” he tells her. “If you want to start something, be my guest – you know I live for it – but do it for the selfish pleasure of screwing Ben over, not on my behalf.”

Eleanor looks up from the maelstrom she’s busy creating on her phone, and holds his gaze with the utmost seriousness. “You aren’t a has-been, Louis,” she says. “I won’t let anyone call you that. Not even you.”

She tucks her phone away, and squeezes Louis’s arm in that way of hers – one squeeze, hard, to match the intensity she senses beneath his surface, and then a second one, gently, to calm him. He has depended on this touch, on her ability to correctly read his mood and affirm him, for years now, and she never stops surprising him with how well she knows him. His gaze finds hers – blue eyes meet brown – and he lets a soft smile tug at his lips.

“It’s not something I’m ashamed of, really. It’s just…fact.”

“The way you talk, you sound like you’re some old man teetering on the edge of retirement,” she says, almost scolding, as they exit the elevator and head outside to her car. “But you’re only thirty, Lou. You’re not ancient. And you’re in pretty good physical shape, all things considered.” She gestures to his general frame – thin, modestly muscled, 5’9” but visually petite. “You have a lot going for you. You still write music, even.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. Everyone keeps journals. I just happen to keep mine in musical form.”

“Stop minimizing. You still write. You’re still decent-looking. And you’ve still got the best manager ever.” She pops a preening pose as she unlocks the car, just hammy enough to win a genuine smile from him. “There is no need to toll the funeral bells yet. Louis Tomlinson is _not_ a has-been.”

They both get inside the car. Louis puts on his seatbelt, waits for her to start the car, but she sits still for a moment. Just as he is about to ask her what’s going on, Eleanor leans in and kisses his cheek, her lip gloss sticky and sweet.

“Seriously, don’t worry, babe. I’ll start the process of ruining Ben Winston’s professional reputation today, and then I’ll get you another gig, okay? Let me do my job.”

She takes his hand in hers, runs her thumb along the underside of his wrist, her wine-red nail polish stark against his pale skin. A strong tide of mixed nostalgia, melancholy, and gratefulness washes over the beach of Louis’s tired heart. Emotion bubbles up in his throat, trying to match sentiment with language – but before he can open his mouth, she withdraws her hand and starts the car.

With a hum of activity, the car jumps forward, and she drives him home.

\--

He really should take down some of these pictures. Every time Louis walks into his apartment, and is confronted with the large framed poster on his living room wall, immediately visible from the front door, this thought revisits him.

The poster is probably the least embarrassing from the band’s first run of promotional material: a simple blue backdrop, and four boys carefully positioned together in a cluster, young and fresh-faced and in the peak of their lives. When the posters were first printed, destined for teen magazines and the bedroom walls of girls around the world, each of the boys had chosen one to keep for posterity, and they all signed each other’s, practicing signatures that were not yet second-nature to them.

Louis Tomlinson, Liam Payne, Niall Horan, and Zayn Malik: as teenagers, they thought they were the luckiest boys in the world. And, in many ways, they were. Except, that kind of luck came with a price, and everyone had to pay it in due time.

Louis certainly did.

For the first couple of years after the band broke up, he was sorely tempted to rip away all reminders of who he was, who they all used to be. Liam, his hair floppy and highlighted blonde then, eyes crinkling like innocent half-moons; Niall, his teeth still crooked, caught mid-laugh by the camera as usual; Zayn, clean-shaven and clean-cut, his skin edited to be three shades lighter than it really was, which he’d always hated. Louis himself, a complete embarrassment with that stupid hedgehog hairdo. At a time when most boybanders had sleek, perfect hair, Louis shunned all stylists and spent half an hour too long in the bathroom every morning, making everyone crazy (and late) in his pursuit of artfully rumpled “authenticity.”

He’d thought he was the height of cool, and beamed proudly every time a camera turned his way. But now it feels as though his desperation to be liked is a pungent smell constantly wafting out of that poster – too eager, too fragile, though he hadn’t known it at the time. His smile – everyone’s smiles – frozen in time, blissfully unaware of the imminent future, is sometimes excruciating to behold.

He came close to shattering the poster’s frame, several times, when he was drunk or lonely or bitter. But in the end, he never quite had the stomach for it. Being in that band had often felt like hell, but it was actually more like the night sky – an oppressive darkness riddled with stars, all those little pinpricks of light that somehow, together, cut through the black and felt brighter even than the morning sun.

None of them were ever under any illusions that it would all last forever – but in four years of togetherness, the crowds and the headlines screaming their names like prayers to gods, One Direction did kind of feel like everything.

Louis’s life is quieter now. One Direction did not, in fact, last forever-- not as a band, or even as friends.

He comes home alone, dumps his keys and wallet on the coffee table, grabs a beer from the fridge and flops on the couch to watch recorded episodes of the _Kardashians_ by himself. The boys on the walls hover just outside his peripheral vision, like ghosts standing watch – the four of them together only in pictures, in memories.

It’s kind of sad, like a haunting – but the selectively framed narrative of the four cute, happy pop stars is the happiest story he knows how to tell himself.

\--

After two days of relative peace – plenty of beer, Chinese delivery, and almost a full season of _Gossip Girl_ when the Kardashians finally became tiresome – Eleanor calls, requesting a meeting in person the next morning. Louis doesn’t especially plan on showing up, since he is far more interested in whether or not Blair Waldorf and Chuck Bass will get back together – but then the buzzer to his apartment rings. He curses under his breath as he gets up to check the security camera – and it reveals Eleanor, holding a box of Domino’s in her well-manicured hands, grinning at the lens. He lets her upstairs, equal parts irritable and grateful for her company.

“I thought we were meeting tomorrow,” he notes as she walks through the door. The obvious is always a good place to start. He goes to the kitchen to get plates – his last clean ones – as Eleanor shrugs off her black coat.

“I decided this was too good to wait.” Unperturbed by Louis’s petulance, she glances at the TV, still paused on Blair’s agonized decision-making expression. “But I see I have detained you from matters of supreme importance.”

“I will forgive you your impertinence if that pizza has sausage _and_ pepperoni on it.”

“Like I would ever dare to offer you less.” She smirks as she reveals a sausage, pepperoni and green pepper pizza with extra cheese.

Louis beams. “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.”

Eleanor rolls her eyes, but her smile is affectionate, as she takes two slices and settles herself on the couch. She looks distinctly out of place, black skinny jeans and expensive perfume amidst the mess of beer bottles and take-out cartons around the living room, but he offers her the last of the beer he had been nursing and she accepts it, finishing most of it in one gulp.

“Your news is that good, huh?” He takes the empty bottle, and a few of the other empty ones on the floor, to the kitchen, returning with two fresh ones.

“It’s the best we’ve had in a while, actually.” She opens her bottle, takes another long gulp. “I’m not sure you’ll even believe me when I tell you.”

“You have my attention.”

Eleanor eats more of her pizza, seeming to choose her words carefully. “So…I was at a party tonight.”

“Whose?”

“I don’t even remember – someone’s got a single coming out or something – but the point is, I bumped into Taylor Swift. You remember her?”

Louis snorts in derision. Of course he remembers Taylor Swift – country-pop princess, a shameless Shania Twain wannabe, one of One Direction’s contemporaries at every party and industry event. She was even interested in Liam for a while, batting her eyelashes and fussing with her blonde curls every time they ran into each other. Liam never reciprocated, but her persistence meant that Louis had spent enough time in her presence to recall her less than fondly. As far as he knew, she’d retired from music a year after One Direction broke up in order to get married to some music producer.

“ _This_ is the big news you interrupted my show to tell me, that you brought me pizza for? You chatted up Taylor Swift at a party?”

“ _Listen._ ” Eleanor puts down her pizza to demonstrate her seriousness. “We sat down and talked for a while. Apparently, second time’s the charm, and married life is treating her well, and—”

He wrinkles his nose. “Wait, _second_ time?”

Eleanor rolls her eyes and swats Louis’s knee, hard. “I know you don’t give a shit about that stuff anymore, but _God,_  Lou, even _you_ must have gone to a supermarket in the last few years and caught a couple of _OK!_ headlines.”

“I did not, and look at what a peaceful life I’d led until now.” He tenderly rubs his knee and glowers. “Cliffsnotes, please.”

“She married Calvin Harris – that was when she retired – and she’s had, like, three kids since then. But they divorced a couple of years ago, and have now just gotten remarried. So, it’s the second time, but to the same guy.”

Louis’s features curdle in the utmost disgust. “ _Why?"_

“I don’t know!” Eleanor throws her hands up in the air, and one of them lands back on his knee in another swat. “But that’s not the point. The point is, she and Calvin are happy again, their family is reunited, everyone is sunshine and rainbows – and Taylor wants to make a comeback album. Jumpstart her career, as it were.”

“And what, exactly, does that have to do with me?”

“She says she wants to put a duet on her album, so she’s been asking around for other artists to write one for her.”

“Why doesn’t she just write it herself and bring on a guest?” An old factoid floats up in Louis’s memory: _artistic integrity_ used to be one of Taylor’s big selling points. She had always marketed herself as the megastar who wrote her own music, which was supposed to set her apart from the Britneys and Christinas of the day.

“Honestly? I didn’t ask too many questions about her motivations. I chose to focus on the part where she remembers your work from One Direction and wants to talk to you about writing the duet for her new album.” Eleanor’s cheeks strain with the brilliant wideness of her smile. “Apparently, she’s been meaning to get in touch with us. She says she checked the writing credits on each of One Direction’s albums, and all her favorite songs were written by you! She asked if you were still writing music, and I said of course you were, and—”

Immediately, Louis’s breath hitches; his heart crashlands into his stomach; shards of rib-cage embed themselves in all his major organs. “Why would you tell her such a thing?”

“Because it’s true. _Anyway._ ” She waves away Louis’s internal hemorrhaging crisis with an impatient flick of her hand. “She says she wants to meet with you in the next couple of days to give you the details, but basically she’ll give you about a week and a half to write an original song, and—”

“El, _no_.” Louis has to exert a herculean effort not to shake Eleanor where she sits. “No, no, no, no, no. _No_. You have got to be shitting me, I _can’t_ —”

“You can _._ ” Her eyes are fierce, resolute. “Louis, do you have any idea what kind of an opportunity this is?”

He wants to answer. He opens his mouth, but the shock has robbed all powers of intelligent speech. His tongue flails uselessly in his mouth like a beached whale, suddenly out of its element. Eleanor takes instant advantage of this: she grabs his shoulders, grips them tightly, and speaks quickly, her gaze never leaving his.

“I know how you are, Lou, and normally I would break this to you slowly, and coddle you until you stopped being a high school wallflower about it, but we don’t have that kind of time. This right here is – it’s once-in-a-lifetime. Okay? Because I know you never thought much of her or her music, but Taylor was hot shit back in the day, with the fans _and_ with the critics. They all loved her. They all mourned her when she said she was done with music. And a Taylor Swift comeback album – that’s going to be _enormous._  The press will be all over it. She will break every sales record there has ever been. And the lucky bastard who collaborates with her – whoever gets to do that duet she was telling me about tonight – they are going to get the PR of their wildest dreams by having their name attached to hers. And Louis – I want you to be that lucky bastard.”

“But I-I can’t—El, I don’t write anymore,” he manages wildly. “Nothing _good,_ nothing – nothing she would _want_. You know, _you know_  I haven’t, that I couldn’t since—”

“You need this, Lou.” On this point, she is both blunt and firm. “If you want to hold onto your career…you really, really need this. I am doing everything in my power to book you One Direction-related gigs like we’ve been doing, and I am still going to try to get you on TV because I think that would be fun and good for you, but it’s getting harder, with One Direction so long ago.” She bites her lip, her eyes sad, but her voice is determined and doesn’t waver. “This is hard for me to say, and harder for you to hear, but if you want to hold onto your career in music, Taylor is a _godsend_. She really is interested in hearing you out. She wants this to work. You just…have to let it.”

From somewhere far away, it seems, Louis hears his own voice as though it’s coming out of someone else’s mouth. “Can I…think about it tonight, and get back to you in the morning?”

“Fine, but you have to call me _immediately_ when you wake up. Definitely before noon. Let’s make it ten? Call me at ten, and if you want to do it, then I’ll call Taylor and set up the meeting.” Eleanor pauses. “And I really, _really_ hope you want to.”

Again, as though underwater in a distant church— “Do you mind giving me a little space for now?”

“Of course.”

She loosens her grip on Louis’s shoulders, runs her hands up and down his arms, as though trying to calm them both down. Then her hands find Louis’s: she squeezes twice, like always. He can’t bring himself to look her in the eye.

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, then,” she says softly. “Call me as soon as you can.”

“Okay.” The single word is all he can muster.

One last squeeze of his hand, and Eleanor gets to her feet, collects her coat, and leaves the apartment. Her half-eaten pizza slice, and half-finished bottle of beer, both remain on the coffee table where she left them. Louis sits in shocked silence for several minutes, unable to move.

His TV is in screensaver mode, but _Gossip Girl_ remains paused there, the fantasyland of Blair Waldorf just a button press away. For a moment, it’s tempting to lose himself in the world of couture ball gowns, and beautiful people making terrible decisions, but Louis knows in his heart of hearts that tonight he needs to be awake thinking rather than mindlessly consuming.

He turns off the TV, and takes his beer to bed, wondering where to begin calming his dizzy thoughts.

\--

It’s three in the morning – entirely too late to be calling anyone – but Louis, rather buzzed on the beer, decides to call his sister Lottie anyway, his go-to confidant on the few matters he can’t work out with Eleanor alone. He flops on his bed, wincing slightly at what this does to his aching head, and unlocks his phone. His call history list is its usual pathetic state, almost every call going either to Eleanor or various take-out places. He sighs, and presses his thumb to Lottie’s name. She picks up on the second ring.

“You okay, Lou?” She sounds alert, on edge, and only now does the thought strike him, in all his hazy wisdom, that three AM phone calls usually mean death or serious maiming.

“I’m alive and breathing and not hospitalized, don’t worry,” he assures her. “I just, um…wanted to talk?”

“What’s up?”

“I, uh…” Now that he has to put words to the restless emotion gnawing his insides, he feels smaller. “El has this gig for me, but I’m not sure if I should do it.”

“A gig? But isn’t that a good thing?”

“It’s not a performance in the traditional sense. It’s…well, you remember Taylor Swift, right?”

“Of course!”

“She’s doing a comeback album, and she wants me to write a song for it..”

“Lou, this is such amazing news!” Her voice is high and breathless with excitement. “Not only is _Taylor Swift_ doing a _comeback,_  she wants _you_ to be a part of it! Why aren’t you out getting wrecked with El in celebration?”

“Did you not hear me properly? She wants me to _write her a song_. Like. An original song. One where I do the music and presumably the lyrics too, and then she sells it to the whole planet, and probably all semi-intelligent life beyond Earth as well.”

“Well, did she give you a theme? Or lyrics to start?”

“I…haven’t actually spoken to her yet.”

Lottie goes silent for so long that for a second he thinks she’s hung up on him.

“You’ve got to be joking.”

“I’m not. El wants me to call her in the morning so she can set up the meeting.”

“You are honestly the world’s biggest prat, Louis. So much fussing and you haven’t even met with her! What are you so afraid of?”

Louis sighs, long and deep. He hesitates a moment before he admits, “I just…haven’t written a full song, music and lyrics, since I used to write with Liam. Okay? And it’s been years, but I never quite figured out how to write without him.”

“Oh, Lou.” Lottie’s voice at once becomes tender, sympathetic. “Babe, I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s okay. I know it’s high time I stopped getting my knickers in a twist over him.” His tone is determinedly nonchalant, but his stomach burns with shame.

“He was so important to you, though, and you associate the writing process so strongly with him. It’s not an easy thing to unlearn.”

“But I have to, don’t I. If I’m to write a song for Taylor Swift.”

“You don’t _have_ to do anything, though,” she reminds him. “El did give you a choice.”

“But it was an Eleanor-style choice.” Despite himself, the corner of his mouth twitches into a smile. “It was a choice with only one option – the thing she wants me to do. Which, in this case, is to write the song.”

“That’s fair,” Lottie chuckles. “So will you take your one option, then?”

He sighs again. “Suppose I’ve got to.”

“It’ll be good for you, I think. You haven’t even got anything to lose. The worst that could happen is, you don’t write a song, or Taylor says no to one you do write. Either way, you won’t be any worse off than you are now.”

“I might lose the last shreds of my dignity and self-respect, though.” Louis’s fragile smile cracks, falls; his brow furrows. Lottie clearly hears his mood shift, because the tone of her response is almost uncomfortably kind.

“You’re too close to it, Loubear, so you can’t see it – or, hear it, I guess – but I _know_ how talented you are. I’m sure you’ll come up with something beautiful.”

Louis fights hard against the lump in his throat. “I highly doubt that,” he says flatly. “I could never get the lyrics right alone, and it’s never worked with other lyricists. I tried it, for that solo album. It’s never felt right with anyone else.”

“That was then,” Lottie points out. “This is now. It’s worth a try, at least.”

“It’s just – this isn’t _Survivor: Has-Been Edition,_  or something stupid where everyone goes into it knowing how absurd it is. This isn’t _funny_.” He licks his lips, bites down hard. “If I couldn’t get a song together in time, or she didn’t like what I did work hard to come up with – it would…it would hurt. I would get hurt.”

“But it seems like you’re already hurting now,” Lottie points out, so gently that it’s almost crushing. “So if you’re going to ache either way, why not hurt in a way that could be productive?” She lets the silence spiral for a moment, then changes tack. “Listen. It’s the middle of the night, and everything always seems scarier when it’s late. Why don’t you go to sleep now, set an alarm for the morning, take a walk and get some breakfast before calling Eleanor? It’ll clear your head, make it easier to decide.”

“You’re probably right.” Indeed, it’s nearing four AM now. “Thanks, Lots.”

“Any time, Lou. Love you. Take care of yourself.”

“Good night.”

“Good night.”

\--

Lottie is right, of course. And so is Eleanor. Despite the alarm bells ringing on high alert inside his head, there is only one thing for him to do – so he does it.

After two hours of tossing and turning, helplessly procrastinating the inevitable, Louis calls Eleanor and says, “Set up the meeting. Text me the details, I’m going to sleep now.”

She’s quiet for a heartbeat, but her smile is practically audible. “Sleep well, Lou!”

\--

Taylor Swift decides she wants to meet in her own living room, in her Midtown penthouse at twelve o’clock on Friday afternoon, two days after Eleanor calls her back. She swings by Louis’s place at eleven in her car to pick him up, anticipating traffic, but the roads are surprisingly cooperative on this day of all days – and the two of them end up on Taylor’s street twenty minutes early.

“This has to be a bad omen,” he says. “I mean, New York traffic is _never_ nice to me. If it chooses today, I can make only one plausible conclusion – that the apocalypse is upon us, and we must forget this meeting, get home immediately and cower in the basement until the horsemen have had their ride.”

“You are such a drama queen.” Eleanor is wearing sunglasses, but Louis assumes that beneath them she is rolling her eyes. She puts the car in park at the end of the street and reaches into her purse for her phone. “We can sit out here for a few minutes, if that would make you feel better about being early. Some time to ponder the impending apocalypse or whatever else your imagination is cooking up.”

“You laugh now, but if the sky opens up and swallows us whole while we’re sitting in Taylor Swift’s apartment, I’ll be the one getting the last laugh,” Louis says. “Literally – because it’ll be the last day on earth and I’ll be swept up to meet my maker still laughing at you for being wrong.”

Eleanor shoots him an unimpressed look over her sunglasses. “How much sugar did you put in your coffee this morning, exactly?”

“The normal amount. I just happened to have three times the daily serving.”

Eleanor sighs wearily, roots through her purse for her lipstick.

Louis is indeed a little hopped up on sugar – three cups of coffee and Frosted Flakes will do that to a person – but he figures it was better than his usual liquid courage. No matter how bad his drinking has gotten, he’s always had a rule about drinking before noon. So he opted for sugar instead, aiming for cheerful and energized rather than his usual mopey listlessness. It’s working, for the most part, but he still finds himself rather restlessly nervous about this meeting.

There’s nothing _scary_ about Taylor, of course, but the idea of discussing a major shift in his career with her, when all he remembers of her is the curly-haired flirt constantly trailing after Liam, does not sit well inside his stomach. He isn’t sure how serious she’s going to be, or what her expectations are.

She might want to be more hands-on with the songwriting (which would be stifling); she might want to leave the themes and melodies entirely up to him (which would be terrifyingly vague); she might want him to finish something she’s already started (which could be annoying depending on the quality of the content). Frankly, he’s not totally sure what a best-case scenario for that question would look like – and that makes him even more fretful.

He entertains himself with Fruit Ninja on his phone for a few minutes to pass the time, until Eleanor checks her watch and says, “Hey, let’s go in now.” With five minutes until twelve o’clock, the two of them walk into Taylor’s building, and give their names at the desk so they can be shown up to the private elevator to her penthouse.

When the elevator doors open to reveal the hallway leading to the front door, they find that Taylor is already there, waiting to meet them.

“Hi, Louis, I’m so glad you’re here!” she exclaims. She immediately rushes forward to hug him, throwing her arms around his neck and engulfing him in the scent of her fruity perfume. “They call from downstairs when my guests come, so it’s not like I’m always hanging out in the hallway, but – welcome! And hello to you too, Eleanor, it’s wonderful to see you again!” Taylor gives Eleanor an all-consuming hug as well, clutching her like they’re old friends. Eleanor shoots Louis an alarmed smile over Taylor’s shoulder.

“Come on in, I made sandwiches!” She leads the way into her apartment as though this is the most normal thing in the world.

Eleanor and Louis exchange mystified looks, and follow her in somewhat stunned silence.

\--

Taylor Swift is almost unnervingly pleasant-- the kind of over-the-top cheerful that Louis immediately treats with suspicion. He accepts a sandwich, and a glass of homemade strawberry lemonade, but sticks close to Eleanor. Taylor makes some small talk, clearly trying to ease them into this, but eventually gets to the point.

Her album is nearly finished, but she is still looking for one more song to add. She doesn’t have any real specifications, besides wanting a love song-- a duet about strength. “I really just want to hear what you can do,” she says. “You have a week and a half-- until next Wednesday-- which maybe isn’t a lot of time, but it’s already getting to mid-April now, and I want to master and record this duet by early May. I might also want to release this as a single, so if it blows me away, I want the time to get it ready.”

Louis’s heart nearly stops on the spot. _A single? For Taylor Swift?_

“If you did choose Louis’s song for a single, how would that work?” Eleanor chimes in. Louis can already see the cogs turning at her temples.

“Well, the plan is to do a livestream event at the end of May. I’m still fighting out details with Yahoo and Google. I would announce the new album then, reveal the cover art, and perform a couple of songs. If Louis’s song became a single, I would want him to sing it live with me during the livestream. I would also want him to be part of the media blitz promoting the album; my team would work out the details on that with you. And, if all goes well, I’d want him to accompany me on tour in February, at least for a few dates.”

Taylor is still smiling placidly, as though Louis’s brain is not smashed broken fragments in a blender. A livestream? Media? Performing with her? It’s too much too fast, even as a hypothetical. Louis’s career has been small-scale for a long time, nothing at all like _this._  He blinks dazedly a couple of times, trying to imagine herself on a tour bus again at this age, so relatively soon.

Eleanor seamlessly takes over for him.

“So, you want the song in a week and a half – and you’ll decide right away if you want to use it?” she asks.

“I wouldn’t leave you hanging,” Taylor affirms solemnly. “I’d listen to it right in front of you, and let you know on the spot.”

“Fair enough.” Eleanor drains the last of her lemonade, and rises to her feet. “All right, well, you’ve given us plenty to think about. Thank you so much for considering Louis.”

“Thank _you_ for considering _me_! I’m really so thrilled—”

“But didn’t you hear my solo album?” Louis blurts out, unable to contain himself. Eleanor looks like she’s just been slapped in the face.

“What do you mean?” Taylor appears sincerely puzzled.

“I released a solo album, _Once_ ,” he explains, all in a rush. It is imperative, suddenly, for her to hear this. “It barely sold out its first run, I lost a ton of money, and all the critics hated it. Do you remember that? The press laughed at me for weeks. I was the punch line of every late-night talk show host for at least a month. Why on earth would you want me to write you a song when _that_ is the last original work on my resume?”

Eleanor’s eyes are wide and horrified, clearly making plans to dismember his body once they’re safely back in her car – but Taylor merely laughs. _Laughs._

“Are you laughing because you remember how terrible it was?” he asks, eyebrow raised, cheeks burning.

“No! I actually haven’t heard it.”

“Maybe you should before you give me this kind of responsibility.”

“Stop it.” Taylor puts a friendly hand on his shoulder, shakes him playfully. “Everyone’s allowed one free embarrassment on their resume, so long as the rest of their work is stellar – and yours, for One Direction, was. For four years, you were put through wringer in the boyband machine, and you came out of it with a seriously great body of work. You should be proud of that! It takes a lot of skill. And anyway, I’m not asking you to write a whole other solo album; this is just one song. And I’m sure it’ll be amazing.”

She smiles brightly at Louis, then at Eleanor, who has hastily rearranged her expression into something vaguely resembling polite pleasantness. Taylor hugs Eleanor, then Louis again, and leads them out the front door and towards the elevator they came in from.

“Thanks again for coming, you two! I’ll see you soon!” She’s like a mother sending her children off to school, as Eleanor and Louis walk backwards into the elevator, waving goodbye too cheerfully for Louis’s taste.

Eleanor waves back indulgently – but the moment the elevator doors close, she lets him have it.

“What the _hell_ were you thinking, Lou?” she demands, smacking him in the arm with her enormous black purse. “Why did you have to go and bring up the solo album with her? Are you _trying_ not to get this job?”

“I wanted to be honest with her!” His shoulder smarts, but he doesn’t complain or resist when she smacks him a second time. If he’s honest with himself, he kind of deserves it. “She’s going on and on about how wonderful I am, and – and I don’t trust that kind of flattery, all right? It’s weird to me.”

“It’s not _weird,_  it’s _career-making,_ ” Eleanor corrects. “Luckily, she finds your insanity charming rather than self-destructive, but can you please refrain, in the future, from talking people out of hiring you for jobs you need?”

“Fine, okay.” He rolls his eyes, and the two of them exit the elevator together, walking back out the front doors of the building.

The day outside is cloudy, but pleasant, a cool breeze rustling Eleanor’s long hair, sending a bit of dust in Louis’s eye. He squints with displeasure, and follows her to the car. He can tell she’s still annoyed about what he said to Taylor, but he refuses to regret it. People like Taylor – friendly, eager, seemingly straightforward – are very common in this business, and Louis learned at a young age not to mistake bullshit for fertilizer, especially not during the first meeting. By putting her on the spot with an inappropriate comment, he was able to gauge a more genuine reaction from her – and, much to his amazement, she _did_ seem to mistake his boorishness for honest charisma. Though he’s not yet sure what this means, he is glad to file this note away in his mind for future use.

The traffic on the way to Louis’s apartment is back to its usual sluggish self, constant stops and starts. Eleanor sighs crossly, making liberal use of her horn as they crawl down the road. She asks if he wants to stop at the McDonald’s coming up, and when the traffic finally clears enough to let them pass, they both load up at the drive-thru, French fries and milkshakes just because they can. He gets chocolate with extra whipped cream, and Eleanor gets strawberry.

“I propose a toast,” she says, holding up her glass, “to Taylor Swift, who might just save us all.”

“To Taylor!” he echoes, tapping his glass against hers. “May she never get curious and search _Once_ on YouTube!”

\--

Eleanor comes back to Louis’s apartment for a working dinner later that night, the two of them picking up Thai food for dinner and sitting on the floor of his living room, listening to Taylor’s old albums and sending urgent emails to lyricists. Louis is in ultimate comfort mode, wearing boxers and a wrinkly old tourist t-shirt from Chicago, hogging all the pad thai. Eleanor, for her part, grazes on crab rangoon and spicy chicken as she alternates between scrolling through her phone and her laptop for more names. She is also in control of the music – which, apparently, is not to her taste.

“Her first album especially is so…juvenile,” she complains. “All fairytales and pretty-eyed boys and this stupid tear-stained guitar – I mean, come on.”

Louis grins. “It’s juvenile, yes, but it’s not _bad_ , especially for a sixteen-year-old. She can write a solid hook. And anyway, first albums are always lame. Do you remember that hideous single Simon forced on us – ‘What Makes You Beautiful’?” He chuckles in mild horror. “Honestly, I’d listen to ‘Teardrops on my Guitar’ three times before I sang a single word of ‘What Makes You Beautiful’ again.”

“I’ll give you that one; nothing on here is quite as bad as ‘What Makes You Beautiful.’” Eleanor laughs, mimes puking. “I’m so glad I wasn’t around for the first tour. I would’ve quit if my livelihood depended on listening to that tripe every night for months on end. Your second album was better, though admittedly not by much.”

“Well, according to Taylor, our fourth one was the best.”

“Taylor Swift, a Directioner.” Eleanor giggles into her beer. “Who would have thought?”

“Well, we knew she was a fan of Liam, at least.”

“ _God_ , yeah. I’d forgotten about that."

"Sucks for her. Now she’s stuck with me.”

Eleanor swats his shoulder less than playfully. “Stop it.” She clicks something on her computer, then swings it around to show Louis. The page she’s opened is a Twitter profile for one Eric Reynolds. “What do you think of Eric as a potential lyricist? He’s worked with both Selena Gomez and Ariana Grande.”

“Is he available?”

“I messaged him while you got dinner, and he’s responded saying he wants to meet. He’s free all week.”

“See if he can do tomorrow. And turn Taylor off, I want to hear what this guy has written.”

Eleanor pauses the music and starts typing, while Louis Googles Eric Reynolds’s recent accomplishments. His most notable appears to be a writing credit on Selena Gomez’s “Love You Like a Love Song.” As Louis plays the song and scrolls through the lyrics, it seems vaguely familiar – he’s probably heard this at the mall or on the radio at some point – but he isn’t impressed. _You are beautiful, like a dream come alive, incredible / A centerfold, miracle, lyrical._ It sounds like Reynolds and the other two writers just threw random adjectives together, hoping the electronic beat would compensate for the weakness of the words. How can a centerfold even be lyrical? This is the sort of lazy songwriting that keeps Louis awake at night.

“What do you think?” asks Eleanor.

“It’s…fine, I suppose.”

“I haven’t sent the email yet. Do you want me to?”

He sighs heavily. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s do it. It’s just one song, and I have to start somewhere.”

“Okay. I’m asking him for tomorrow at three.”

“Great.”

“Oh, and I’ve also set up for you to get new headshots tomorrow – at 1:30, so it doesn’t conflict with Eric,” she adds, typing again. “The photographer is my friend Nick – you remember him?”

“Grimshaw? Doesn’t he have that radio show?”

“Well, yeah, but Grimmy fancies himself a jack of all trades, and his current love affair is with photography.” Eleanor’s smirks. “I wouldn’t indulge him normally, but I wanted these done fast so I could distribute them to a few TV execs – _not_ Ben Winston again – and Nick can accommodate us tomorrow. He’s pretty good, from what I’ve seen, and most importantly, he’ll do it cheap.”

“Sounds like a win-win-win to me. He’ll be done by the time Eric comes?”

“Yes. He’s a…well, I guess you could call it a decisive personality. He’ll have you finished in plenty of time for Eric.”

“Good.” Louis sighs, runs a weary hand through his hair. “Will you be around tomorrow?”

“Nervous, huh?” Eleanor’s voice is gentle; she gives his knee a little squeeze. “I was planning on overseeing your photoshoot – make sure Nick behaves himself – but I can stay for your writing session as well, if you want me to.”

“You’re so good to me.” He blows her a sarcastic kiss, but his smile is sincere, a little fragile. “Don’t worry, I’ll make it worth your while. You can hang out in my room, drink my booze, watch my Netflix. And you can yell at us if what you’re hearing is terrible.”

“Sounds like a plan.” She laughs, and checks her watch. “Okay, so, it’s about ten now. We’ve got a feel for Taylor’s old stuff, Eric’s set to go, so is Nick, and I’m waiting on three other lyricists to get back to me. Is there anything else we need to do tonight?”

“Not that I can think of. Do you have to be somewhere now?”

“Cara Delevingne is having a birthday party at some club downtown. I thought I might drop in.” She pauses. “Do you want to come with me? Socialize with the young and the beautiful?”

Louis considers it, seriously. He used to love the party scene during the boyband days, spending too many nights in exclusive clubs, drinking and dancing and, on occasion, getting into fights. Even after the band broke up, he continued to go out, kill time, trying to drown out his unquenchable sadness with noise and light and vodka. But when the solo album crashed and burned, and he started drinking to blackout, he decided he had to get clean, moderate his drinking habits – which meant that he stopped going to parties altogether. Eleanor still has to go to everything from stiff black tie to gritty ragers because her job requires so much networking; he accompanies her occasionally if she needs a plus one, but he knows that’s not why she’s asking now.

His social life lost all steam without the crutch of alcohol-fueled escapades downtown. For a while, he went to quieter bars, sometimes pulled a one night stand, but that lost its luster fairly quickly. He was not without acquaintances – people he knew and liked superficially from events he attended as part of One Direction – but they were never the type of friends to go out with for coffee, talk about anything that mattered. Friends like that, like the ones he had in Doncaster once upon a time, had mostly lost touch with him, either because of the initial fame or the meltdowns during the height of his fame.

And while Louis has more or less come to terms with that, and has learned how to spend extended stretches of time by himself, he knows that Eleanor worries. She has always worried about him. Her face is neutral, only politely expectant, as she waits for his answer, but he senses her concern. She doesn’t want him to be alone tonight, especially, when he’s about to embark on perhaps the two most important weeks of his career. And so he tries for her, tries to drum up a modicum of interest in Cara’s party – but he finds only overwhelming tiredness.

“I think I’ll stay in tonight, if that’s okay,” he says. “I want to be well-rested for tomorrow.”

As expected, her face falls slightly.

“Okay. That’s probably a good idea. I’ll, um…I’ll come over around one?”

“Thanks, El.” He gets up off the floor, offers her his hand. She takes it, and he hauls her up to her feet. “Thank you for dinner. For tonight. For everything, really.”

Eleanor smiles that same smile Louis has known since he was a kid – wide, affectionate, genuinely loving. The crinkles around her eyes are deeper now with age, but she still smells like floral sweetness and summer nights and good times, like a safe haven. She leans in, hugs Louis tightly.

“Have a good night,” she says, before she stands, collects her things, and exits the apartment. She locks the door behind her – the landlord gave Eleanor keys to this place before Louis got his own set – and the room is still and silent again.

He gets to his feet and clears away the stuff from dinner, throwing out trash and washing dishes. And he’s not sure what it is, exactly – the way Eleanor’s departure feels like the seizure of life-giving warmth, the way his stomach is in unsettled limbo knowing that he will be writing tomorrow – but he is overcome with an aching nostalgia for something he can’t name, something he’s probably never even had. The world seems to be standing still, but his heart spins like a wash cycle gone wild. He retires to bed, but instead of sleeping, he starts scrolling through the music on his phone.

Zayn never liked owning copies of One Direction albums, insisting he would get more than enough of the stuff during rehearsals and shows on tour before blasting some obscure R&B playlist through his headphones, but Louis did take a certain pride in having a disc, then a digital download, of his own work. The songs could frequently feel like a chore when on tour, yet they were _his_ , and he was responsible for their existence, and each one reminded him of a city, a time, a precious moment. “Don’t Forget Where You Belong” was him and Niall and Liam, getting drunk in a Paris hotel room, passing around old pictures and writing lame postcards for their sisters; “Ready to Run” was Liam with a notebook on his lap, brow furrowed in the sunlight, the picture of pure focus; “One Thing” was Zayn chasing Niall around on stage with a watergun in Brussels, the two of them laughing so hard they almost missed their cues.

Sometimes, these memories make Louis smile. Other times, they are too painful to even touch. Tonight, they feel like a raw nerve, blisteringly exposed, the kind of agonizing that needed to be indulged before it’s possible to move on.

So he puts his One Direction songs on shuffle next to his bed, listens to the opening notes of a song off the second album – one he remembers that El sang along to once, quietly, while texting on her phone during a performance in Sydney – and lets his heart bleed, scarlet pools of sadness filtering through his ribcage. He tells himself it’s because he wants to refamiliarize himself with the mechanics of the One Direction sound in preparation for writing Taylor’s song tomorrow, and lets Zayn’s crooning carry him to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

True to her word, Eleanor comes to Louis’s apartment at one o’clock, the click-clack of her high-heeled boots signaling her arrival well before she walks in. Louis – sitting on the couch, hair freshly shampooed, not hungover, wearing an ironed t-shirt and jacket – grins at her over his cup of coffee.

“Hey, you,” he says.

“Hey, yourself.” She dumps her oversized bag on the counter, helps herself to some water from the fridge. “Thanks for cleaning up nice.”

“Oh, you think _that’s_ unbelievable? This morning, I stopped by the grocery store, stocked up on nonalcoholic liquids and fruit, sorted out my broken coffee maker, and tuned the piano.” He gestures to it in the corner of the living room – gleaming, for once, because Louis had dusted it for the first time in three months. “I wasn’t sure if Eric would want to stick with guitar, or guitar and piano, so I figured it was best to be prepared.”

Indeed, his maudlin episode evaporated with sleep, and restless anxiety woke him at ten, prepared to do tasks even as repugnant as cleaning to pass the time before the writing session.

“Color me impressed.” Eleanor grins, grabbing an apple from the dish on Louis’s counter. “So, in terms of scheduling in the next couple of weeks: you have the Kappa Alpha Theta regional event tomorrow, and the Adventureland gig on Friday. I’m also setting up some meetings for guest appearances on TV; we might be able to get you on one of the NCIS spin-offs, I can’t remember which one I’m talking to right now.”

“Cool! Do I get to be a villain? Hold a gun?”

“I’ll see what I can do.” She takes a bite out of the apple, then opens her bag, retrieving a small stack of papers clipped together. “Take a look at these scripts. My friend Anna is a casting director. Let me know which ones you like, and I’ll see if I can get you an audition.” She brings the stack to Louis on the couch, settles in next to him as he starts flipping curiously through the pages.

“This is for… _Teen Wolf,_  really?” He holds up a script called “Creature of the Night.” “What, am I supposed to be the creature in the night? Put fur and crazy makeup on my face, howl at a paper mache moon?”

“It’s popular with the kids, I don’t know!”

“Shouldn’t you, though, if you’re giving me a script?!”

Eleanor covers her face with her hand, laughing so hard her eyes are like half-moons. “Anna just gave me some scripts, Lou! I didn’t _read_ them all!”

“What is this show even about? Can you Google it? Is it on Netflix?”

Still chuckling, Eleanor grabs Louis’s laptop, unlocks it with the password she’s had since he bought it, and starts Google-searching.

From there, they begin exploring the online world of _Teen Wolf_ , reading the script aloud together through fits of cackles, sometimes so giddy they’re soundless. It’s silly, and entertaining, and takes the edge off the panic that has been building inside Louis ever since Eleanor told him about the gig. She has this way of putting him at ease, bringing out his good humor; they take such pleasure in _Teen Wolf_ , and an even more outlandish script for an ABC Family drama, that in fact the time gets away from them. One thirty comes, and goes, and without the ring of the buzzer to pierce the mood, the fun just continues on, the two of them laughing until they’re breathless with it.

It isn’t until 2:30, when they’re sprawled on the couch trying to rank the scripts in order of ridiculousness, that Louis’s phone rings and forces him to check the time.

“Shit. Fuck.” The smile on his face fades a little, as he sees it’s Eric calling and it’s half an hour until their meeting. “El. I have to take this, but where is Nick? He never showed.”

“ _Fucking hell_.” Eleanor’s face switches from relaxed mirth to outrage in one remarkably smooth motion. “I am going to _murder_ him. Answer Eric, and I’ll get Nick from my phone.”

Louis nods, accepts the call. “Hello, Eric?”

“Yes, hi, Louis. Listen, I’m a little ahead of schedule today, and I’m already reaching your building. Are you okay to start sooner rather than later?”

“Um, yeah, actually, now is fine. Just buzz up.”

Eric ends the call, and Louis looks back at Eleanor, who is cursing at her phone.

“Did you get Nick?”

“No, he’s not picking up his fucking phone.” She flings it on the couch, glaring at it. “Way to be un-fucking-professional, Grimshaw!”

“Keep yelling, El, I’m sure he’ll be able to hear you and pony on over.”.

“I swear, when the fucker finally picks up the phone…” She curses again, picking up the phone so she can try Nick again – but as she gets his voicemail for the fourth time, the buzzer rings. Louis presses the button to let him through, and opens the front door, the nerves roaring back in full force as he realizes what he has to do. He has to _write a pop song_ , for Taylor Swift. It’s going to happen – today. Trepidation grips his stomach, like it’s about to jump off a cliff into the shadowy abyss. He glances at Eleanor with an expression of sheer panic, and only this manages to tear her away from calling a veritable man-hunt for Nick Grimshaw. She tucks the phone in her pocket and her hand finds Louis’s, squeezing it reassuringly.

“Hey. It’s going to be great,” she says. “We’re all rooting for you – me, Taylor, Lottie. Your mum and other sisters, if you’ve told them. We’re all on your side. We all know you are more than capable of writing a great song. Just…let yourself do it.”

He meets her eyes, lovely and brown and kind. He wants to hug her, sink his face into her shoulder and sag his weight into her frame – but that’s when Eric walks into the apartment with a, “Hello, Louis.”

“Hi, Eric.” He lets go of Eleanor’s hand, shakes Eric’s, his face as welcoming and not-hideously-nervous as he can manage. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too.”

“This is my manager, Eleanor. You’ve corresponded.” He steps back, lets Eleanor shake Eric’s hand too.

“Hi, Eric. Thanks for coming on such short notice.”

“Not a problem, I was glad to get your message.”

Eric has a pleasant enough countenance – average features, light blue eyes, an even smile, blonde hair in a trendy hair-cut. He’s a couple of inches taller than Louis, and somehow, seeing him there in all his mundane ordinariness, standing in his living room, is enough to talk Louis’s stomach off the ledge.

“Right! So, coffee, tea, water, anything?” Louis edges tentatively towards the kitchen.

“No, thank you, I’m just coming from a late lunch. Shall we get started, then?” Eric gravitates impatiently towards the piano, sitting on the bench and taking his notepad out of his bag while Louis picks up his guitar from the stand on the other end of the living room.

“I’ll talk to you later, Lou,” says Eleanor, waving as she and her bag and besieged phone retreat into his bedroom. She is well acquainted with his bed and his Netflix queue, and will probably watch old episodes of _The Office_ while she waits.

Louis moves to sit on the couch by the piano with Eric. He starts off by asking the most basic questions – the prompt from Taylor, the general style and feel of the song, what Louis’s initial ideas are. It’s been so long since he’s had to think like this, be accountable to anyone about his thoughts.

“Okay,” Eric says slowly when Louis is finished speaking, “so…strength. What about something like—” he takes a moment to scribble it down “—like, _oh baby, baby, it’s been you all along, oh baby, you make me strong_.” He counts out the syllables, back hunched over the notepad like he’s actually uttered something of value.

Or – maybe he _has_ uttered something of value. Maybe Louis is a judgmental prick who has been so out of touch with contemporary songwriting that he is mistaking quality industry work for tired summer radio trash. He bites his lip, mind racing to come up with a melody to match. He strums a few chords, mulling it over.

“Umm…maybe something like this?” Louis plays a few notes in a minor key. “Kind of soft rock ballad-y? And then I could come in on a—” He shifts the harmony lower by a third, tries it out.

Eric, however, snorts. Actually _snorts._

“Louis. No offense, man, but you’ve got an Ashlee Simpson type of vibe going on there. It’s a little dated.”

Louis frowns. “Okay. Well, what would you suggest, then?”

“Something with more of a beat. Do you have your laptop around? Pull up Garage Band.”

He obliges, offering Eric the laptop. The first thing the computer displays is the _Teen Wolf_ episode guide, from when Louis and Eleanor had been reading the script. Eric wrinkles his nose.

“What’s this?”

“Oh, just my manager and I—never mind.” Louis hastily closes the window and opens up Garage Band.

Eric might be soft-spoken and generic to the eye, but his contempt grows stronger by the minute, like a pungent smell that his olfaction cannot normalize fast enough. He immediately takes Louis’s laptop from his hands, balancing it on his thighs as he works the controls. A moment later, he starts an urgent synth beat, nodding as he adds a driving drumbeat.

“ _Baby baby baby, it’s been you all along_ – or, maybe _you’ve been the one all along_.” Eric considers, but only for a second. “Try that on the guitar, which one works better with the tune?”

 _Neither of them_ , Louis thinks, but he chooses to keep this tidbit to himself.

“Erm…” He does try both. “Probably _it’s been you all along._ ”

“Great, that’s what I thought.” Eric plays the beat a bit louder, sings along to it. Frankly, it sounds a bit too much like the Selena Gomez song for Louis’s taste, but he figures he can negotiate the arrangement when the lyrics are more developed.

“Right, okay – so, let’s build the rest of the chorus around that couplet. What should we make this be _about_?”

“Well, the chorus is finished now, in the lyrical sense,” says Eric. “Just that couplet, and repeat the ‘all along’ to finish out whatever chords you write.” He must read the confusion on Louis’s face, because he adds, “It’s what everyone’s doing, Louis. If you want Taylor to truly graduate to the present day, you’re going to have to take my word for it. This is what the kids are listening to.”

“Oh…kay.” Louis clears his throat. “Fine. Yeah. Let’s move into the first verse. Do we want to rhyme, or go free-verse here?”

“Doesn’t matter to me. Any preference?”

“If a rhyme works, we’ll keep it. If not, free-verse it is.”

“How about—” Again, Eric pauses to scribble. “ _See you in the club, blue eyes on blue eyes, music pounding fast_ …” He chews his lower lip. “Hmmm. Maybe, _heart pounding faster, faster_ – and you could kick in some harmonies to round out the phrase on the repeated word?”

“But does it really have to be in a club?” Louis reasons, trying (and likely failing) to hide his alarmed disapproval. “I mean, she’s got three little kids – like, I’m not sure I see her as a making-eyes-at-the-club kind of woman, especially because she’s married now, and—”

“It’s a _song_ , Louis, not an autobiography.” Eric eyes roll practically to the back of his skull. “You see JLo give a shit about being a mom when she’s showing off her ass in music videos?”

“But Taylor Swift is a far cry from JLo—”

“If she wants to sell a record, this is the way to go. Here, let me draft a little something for a minute, and I’ll show you, and we can start working on some chords.”

Eric buries his head back in his notepad, pen scribbling away – as though this really is easy, simple, something that can be done in ten minutes off the top of his head sitting in Louis’s apartment, when Louis spent full days and nights worrying about this song. Eric writes so casually, like the act of composing poetry costs him nothing – as if it’s as mechanical a task as filling out a form. He crosses things out, and rewrites over them, but the page quickly fills up with lyrics, and Louis is astounded.

When he used to write with Liam, it was never so…clinical. They would get comfortable on beanbag chairs and hotel beds, or even go to the beach or the pool with their notebooks and guitar. Louis hadn’t known how to play guitar before One Direction, only piano; it was Niall who’d taught him, taught all three of them, during some down time on the first tour. Zayn was a true singer, uninterested in any instrument that didn’t come built into his body, and Liam only played occasionally, but Louis grew to really love it. He didn’t often play onstage, preferring to leave that to their professional guitarists and Niall, but he did start using it to compose instead of the piano. The guitar was easier to carry around on international flights, for one thing – and for another, he just liked the way it sounded, breezy and yet full of intent. He and Liam would take Niall’s, then Louis’s own, guitar to all sorts of locations – often giving Eleanor heart-attacks by arriving minutes before concerts – and just talk about things, everything, Liam idly jotting phrases down and running them by Louis in the middle of their conversations.

That was how they were – bits and pieces of music folded into the natural rhythm of their friendship, melody and lyrics coming together organically over days and weeks and months. Liam liked to write poetry on his own, but his best work always struck him when Louis was telling him some funny story, and he was laughing until he cried, and something Louis said off-the-cuff became a line they eventually sang to sold-out stadiums containing thousands, screaming the words right back at them. It was a synergy that Louis got used to, perhaps took for granted.

It’s hard to imagine a more dissimilar experience now, with Eric, who is finishing up the verses and whispering them back to himself under his breath. And Louis doesn’t think he likes the bits he’s catching. He’s about to say something, when the buzzer shatters the air with a burst of beep and feedback. Eric nearly falls off the piano bench.

“What is _that_?” He’s frowning, the lines of his face hard with irritation. “Are you expecting someone?”

“Er—no.” Louis gets to his feet, uncertainly presses the button for the intercom just as Eleanor emerges from Louis’s room, looking confused. “Who’s there?”

“Harry Styles,” says a deep voice, crackly with the wind, sounding vaguely urgent. “I’m looking for Louis Tomlinson? Nick sent me. Nick Grimshaw?”

“Oh, um. You’re in the right place, come on up.” Louis allows the man – Harry – through, exchanging a confused look with Eleanor, who sighs.

“So he’s sent a friend,” she says. “And he’s over an hour late. Brilliant. Thanks so much, Nick.”

Louis shrugs helplessly, glancing over his shoulder at a perplexed Eric.

“What’s going on?” Eric asks.

“I was supposed to have a photographer come over to do headshots earlier this afternoon, but apparently, the photographer sent a substitute who is very, very late.”

Eric appears on the verge of more questioning, or perhaps argument, but there’s a knock at the door and Louis runs to answer it.  When he does so, he is confronted with a tall stranger carrying a shoulder bag, a rolled-up screen, and a couple of awkwardly shaped lights obscuring his face.

“I’m so sorry about this,” the guy – Harry – says, in a pleasant drawl. Though his arms are full, he politely remains rooted where he’s standing. “I hope I haven’t interrupted anything.”

“I…have company, but yes, you can come in.” Louis steps aside, lets Harry through. Eleanor rushes forward to take the lights and screen from his hands, and Harry breathes a sigh of relief, brushing his hair out of his face and letting Louis get a good look at him.

And – well, it’s certainly a very good look.

Harry Styles is attractive – young, probably mid-to-late twenties, about three inches taller than Louis and slender beneath tight black skinny jeans hugging his narrow waist, and a fashionable gray spring jacket over his broad shoulders. His eyes are forest green, and his hair is dark brown, naturally curled with soft ringlets falling to his shoulders. His friendly smile reveals an unexpected dimple on his left side. The atmosphere in the apartment had been quiet and almost detached, while Louis and Eric sat in the living room and Eleanor stayed in the bedroom, but now, it’s like Harry has brought a rush of fresh almost-summer air with him from downstairs. Everyone is just a little breathless.

“I would’ve been here earlier, but Nick – well, he just woke up about—” He checks his phone in his pocket “—twenty minutes ago, hungover from a party last night. So he called me and asked me to come here to take headshots. I’m not a photographer, like, professionally speaking, but I took courses back in uni, and I’m sure I could dig up my portfolio for you, if you wanted to see it, and…well, I’m here, if you still want me to take the pictures?”

Louis looks back to Eleanor, unsure of what to do with this pretty boy and all this equipment he’s lugged over on twenty minutes notice. Harry continues to stand politely in the doorway, waiting for Louis’s explicit invitation. Eleanor waits a beat, then steps forward, and gives Harry one of her most dazzling megawatt smiles.

“Well, I’m glad Nick at least had the presence of mind to send someone else along today, and I’ll be sure to bear that in mind when deciding how he’s going to make this up to me.” Her tone is the kind of airy that Louis has been conditioned to regard with fear and wariness, but Harry, happily oblivious, laughs – a disarmingly appealing sound, choky and sweet.

“For what it’s worth, I did tell him not to go to that party,” he tells Eleanor. “He’d said something about a gig the next day, and – well, I suppose this was it!”

Harry shifts his shoulder bag to the other side, prompting Eleanor to ask, “Can I take that for you?”

But Louis, his limited hospitality already so upstaged, cuts in, “Here, I got it,” and takes the bag from Harry’s hands, places it on the chair in the living room. “And come on in, I’m sorry.”

“Not at all. Thank you.” Only now does Harry properly enter Louis’s apartment, and shake Louis’s, then Eleanor’s hands. Eric still hasn’t moved from his spot on the piano bench, so Harry merely waves at him, his dimple impossibly deep with his smile. His mouth is large and generous, his lips full and strawberry pink; Louis is surprised that with the full spotlight of Harry’s charm upon him, all Eric can muster is a weak, half-hearted wave.

“So, this is obviously a bad time,” Harry says, standing next to his things. “I can come back, if you like? Today, if you’ve got time later – or you can just reschedule it with Nick. Whatever you want.”

“I wouldn’t want to keep you from anything else important you have to do,” Louis says.

“Oh, no, I don’t mind!” And Harry’s expression is so unmistakably sunny, bless him, that Louis actually believes him. “I’m off work for the afternoon anyway, so I’m okay waiting until you’re ready. If you want to do it today, I mean. It’ll be quick either way.”

“We won’t be long here either,” Eric pipes up for the first time. “The song’s going well, better than I’d expected. It won’t take more than an hour, right, Louis?”

“Er—yeah.” Louis forces a grin. “Yeah, we’ll be done in an hour.”

“You can wait with me in here,” says Eleanor, gesturing towards the bedroom. “I’m about to call Nick again. Would you like anything to drink?”

“No, thank you.” Harry’s attention is back to Louis. “Are you sure I can stay, then?”

“If you want. And help yourself to whatever you want, fruit or whatever.”

“Bananas?” Harry peers hopefully into the kitchen.

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Thanks,” he repeats, beaming. He locates the bananas on the counter opposite the apples, and takes two. He follows Eleanor into the other room, and the door shuts behind them. Eric and Louis are left in the living room again – and though the interruption took no more than five or six minutes of their time, it’s as though the whole dynamic between them has shifted. Eric clears his throat, back to business and his sheet full of lyrics, but Louis stares at his bedroom door for a moment longer, bemused. It takes Eric calling his name three times to shake him from his haze.

He returns to the couch where Eric is waiting. Eric starts the Garage Band beat again, and Louis watches him work, guitar laying flat and silent on his lap.

\--

Eric is finished and satisfied within the promised hour, leaving Louis with a baseline melody and a complete set of lyrics. The man is a machine with his words, no time spared for inhibition or, truthfully, any creative thought whatsoever. It sounds like a jumble of every summer pop song written in the last three years, set to a beat as generic as Eric’s smile as he shook Louis’s hand, thanked him for his time, and left. Though it’s technically a finished song – which is what he’d wanted – Louis is left feeling rather underwhelmed by the experience, as well as the final product.

When Eric has been seen out, Louis wishes fervently that he kept something stronger than beer in his refrigerator, and trudges his bedroom to complain about this oversight with Eleanor.

But, to his surprise, he sees her sitting on his bed with Harry, who is comfortably cross-legged and laughing with her – and not just polite small-talk laughing, but full-bellied laughing, while the TV remains paused on Pam Beesley’s worried face. Both of them look up as Louis enters, and Harry offers him another one of those smiles that’s almost too big for his face.

“Hey, you!” Eleanor says, patting the empty spot on the bed. “All done?”

“Yeah.” Louis takes the spot, his back to the TV. In his haste to climb up, his arm collides with Harry’s, knocking him off-balance. Harry topples to his side, sending him and Eleanor into yet another fit of giggles.

“I’m sorry,” Louis begins, but Harry cuts him off with a wave of his hand, propping himself back up.

“Nah, I’m probably the clumsiest human being alive. I’m just grateful I didn’t fall off the bed entirely.”

“You guys finished fast, Lou,” Eleanor says, still giggling. “How’d it go? Can we hear the song?”

“God, no. It’s really not – I mean, it’s lazy. He’s not a good lyricist, so now I’m fucked.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad. Why don’t you play it for us?”

“Yeah, I’d love to hear it!” Harry adds excitedly. “Eleanor was telling me about how you’re writing a song for Taylor Swift!”

“Are you a Swiftie, then, young Harry?” Louis asks.

“Yes, but I had no choice in the matter. My older sister loved her. Dragged my whole family to a couple of her concerts, forced us all to listen to the CDs on car rides. But I should have you know, she was also a massive One Direction fan.”

“Oh?” This really shouldn’t perk Louis as much as it does. “And what about you?”

“Now, One Direction I did like. Admittedly, that was all Zayn Malik’s fault. He owned my fourteen-year-old dick.”

Harry’s face is so solemn, deadpan, that Eleanor explodes into laughter again. Harry’s façade cracks, and then he’s grinning too, utterly unashamed.

“So, on that note – I’m going to go set up in the living room for the pictures, if that’s okay.”

“Okay, let’s do it.” Louis is still shaking his head with amusement.

Harry gets off the bed and heads to the living room, goofy smile still on his face. Eleanor and Louis lock eyes at once – Eleanor, meaningful, and Louis, bemused again – but both follow him without comment. They find Harry setting up the white screen and unfolding the stands for the lights, humming to himself. When everything is out, he turns back to Louis. “Do you mind coming over here and standing by the screen? I want to check the height.”

Louis obliges, while Eleanor takes a seat on the couch, evidently to watch the show. Harry considers the set-up, snaps a couple of test-shots before Louis can protest, and nods to himself as he examines the results. Louis hopes that they’ll be deleted later. “I think this looks good. Eleanor, what kind of range did you want? Head and shoulders, head to waist, full body?”

“A little bit of everything,” she answers. “It’s better to be prepared.”

“Fair enough. Okay, let’s start with the full body and work our way to your face, yeah? Give me a nice straight-on stance, then – limbs loose, please.”

“Like this?” Louis has done countless photo shoots for One Direction, far more elaborate and uncomfortable than this single screen and two lights in his living room – and yet Harry’s green gaze, half-obscured by the camera poised in his hands, somehow perturbs him. He can’t seem to remember what to do with his hands. It’s like some kind of terrible elementary school stage fright, his body paralyzed with discomfort.

As though this thought flutters directly from Louis’s brain to Harry’s, he asks, “Shouldn’t you be used to this kind of thing, Louis?” He lowers the camera a little, his lips quirked up in an amused half-grin. “Fans and photographers constantly taking your picture and all?”

“It was eight years ago,” Louis retorts. “I’m out of practice.”

“That’s okay, we’ll make this quick and painless. Just – talk to me. Tell me about that song you were working on. You evaded the subject earlier.”

“Because there isn’t much to tell.” Louis sighs. “I’m not using those lyrics. I’m desperate, true, and it’s not like we’re aiming for Grammy-worthy material here, but Eric is too insipid even for me.”

“You’re right, this is awful,” Eleanor chimes in. She’s holding up Eric’s notepad of finished lyrics, wrinkling her nose as she scans the page in distaste. “Taylor would never go for this. ‘ _See you in the club, blue eyes on blue_ —’”

“ _No_.” On this Louis’s tone is sharp, and firm. “No, El, please. Don’t. The only reason I left that out was because I hadn’t had a chance to dispose of it yet.”

“ _See you in the club, blue eyes on blue, music pounding fast and heart pounding faster faster faster_ ,” Eleanor reads out anyway, her giggles already starting up. " _Feel like I’ve seen you before, some kind of cosmic déjà vu, and I just want to feel your hands on my body, on my body_ —”

“Are you quite finished?” Louis’s voice rises an octave in his indignation.

“No, I’m not! _On my body, you make me feel like Superman—_ or maybe that should be Superwoman? And this chorus, _oh baby, baby, it’s been you all along, oh baby, you make me strong_ —”

Louis makes to lunge at her, snatch the notepad from her hands, but Harry interjects: “Okay, okay, I’m sorry for bringing it up. Focus on me, Louis. Less first-degree homicide, more I’m-a-friendly-and-responsible actor, if you don’t mind.”

“If Satan over there could shut her glossy trap, my job would be that much easier,” Louis counters, making a face at Eleanor. But she’s still reading Eric’s notes, unable to contain her mirth.

“Guess this one’s a one-hit wonder,” she says with a snort. “But don’t worry, Lou, I have emails back from other lyricists who want to meet with you later in the week. We’ll get this figured out, I promise.”

“Alright, back to me, Louis,” Harry reminds them. “Give me a three-quarter profile, distribute your weight equally to your legs, square your hips – yeah, like that. Now, chin up just a touch – perfect – and smile at me like we are best friends, we’ve known each other since uni but we both moved away and we found jobs in our fields and we’re such happy people, and now we’ve met up again for the first time – and yes, yes, hold that face!” Harry’s camera clicks madly, and Louis feels his eyes crinkle with sincere amusement.

“These are looking great,” Harry remarks after shifting Louis around a little, settling on an angle he likes. “Are you still okay standing, or would you like to sit down?”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay. So, we’ve definitely got some good ones, but you still seem…reserved, let’s say.” He takes a few steps forward, coming a little closer into Louis’s space. At once, Louis feels himself tense, which only seems to prove Harry’s point.

“This isn’t supposed to be formal or pose-y,” Harry says, lowering the camera to fix Louis with his preternaturally green stare. “You should be comfortable. Natural.”

“Seriously?” Louis cocks an eyebrow, and— _flash_ , Harry takes a picture.

“Yes. Like what you just did then, or when you were laughing at me earlier – an instinctive reaction.”

“I may not have done a photoshoot for a while, but I do remember how they used to go, you know. The photographers always knew what they wanted, and told me exactly what to do to get it.”

But Harry only grins, and shakes his head.

“I can imagine the stakes are higher when you’re a fourth of One Direction, but these are only headshots. The purpose of them is to show you for how you really are.”

“Well, in that case—” Louis pulls his classic fan-picture face, crossed eyes and an underbite to make his smile jut out.

That ridiculous expression has been known in the past to make girls scream, and sometimes burst into tears, but Harry throws his head back and starts guffawing, like it’s the funniest damn thing he’s ever seen. His nose crinkles, and his eyes are down to slits, like some kind of human emoji.

“Maybe not _that_ true to life,” Harry says, still chuckling, his face sweetly pink. “Okay, okay, this time, you’re at the bar, and there’s this woman, and she’s gorgeous, right, and she’s telling you her name and you want to buy her a drink—”

“If we’re going for accuracy, I’d be pulling a bloke, not a woman.”

“All right, then there’s this bloke, gorgeous, fit—” Harry flawlessly swaps genders and continues to paint the scenario, describing brown eyes and blonde hair, a degree in marine biology, a foot fetish – completely ridiculous, all just to elicit a reaction out of him – and yet, it works. Louis smiles along with the story, sometimes at the words and sometimes just because he’s enjoying the shifts in Harry’s face, how he’s so delighted by the details of his own imagination. His drawl is deep and meandering, and hopelessly endearing – an absorbing distraction from the click-click-click of his camera. Louis actually manages to forget the camera’s constant stare for a few minutes, his smile the truest it’s been as Harry continues to ramble: “…so he accepts the stuffed iguana with tears in his eyes, and gets down on his knee because it’s respectful, and proposes marriage to you. You accept. Congratulations, Louis, you’re going to be a spouse!”

“You mean husband?” Louis asks.

“I like the word spouse. Doesn’t get used enough.”

The baser parts of Louis’s brain immediately demand to know whether anyone has considered making a spouse of Harry Styles yet – but the more rational parts of Louis’s brain swoop right in, quell the thought at once. The brightness of his face dims a little with shy embarrassment, and Harry’s camera clicks faster.

“All right, Louis, we’re nearly there,” he says. “Eleanor, can you come over here for a second?”

“Sure.” Eleanor gets up, leaves her phone on the couch. “What do you need?”

“I like what I have so far, but I think talking to a friend would help Louis loosen up more.”

“That’s an easy assumption to make, but alas – a false one. El is the main source of stress in my life.” But he’s grinning as he says it, and Harry takes several pictures in quick succession.

“That’s what I’m looking for – that playfulness,” says Harry. “Keep talking to each other.” He takes several steps to the side, repositioning himself to get a different angle on Louis, who faces Eleanor. “You two obviously go way back. How did you meet?”

“Oh, that’s a story!” Eleanor chortles. “I was nineteen years old and the boys had just finished their first tour in the UK and were back in London. I went to interview for an intern position on their PR team. But when I got to the building, I saw Louis standing around by the front doors, smoking. I didn’t know until later, but he’d slipped his security and was hiding from them in plain sight while they searched the trains and streets for him. But I recognized him, of course, and he already had a reputation in the industry by then for being a troublemaker. So on instinct, I offered him the pack in my purse if he came upstairs with me.”

“Everyone kept confiscating my cigarettes,” he explains, “and Zayn hadn’t started up yet, so I wasn’t going to say no to some contraband.”

“I took him with me to Simon’s office. We got to the door, and he asked for the pack. I handed it to him – but it was empty, because I’d finished the last one that morning preparing for this interview.” Eleanor looks very pleased with herself. “Louis took the box, smirked at me, then walked inside with it, told Simon he’d smoked the whole thing and couldn’t _wait_ to record his vocals the next day. Simon was about ready to kill him, until I explained the box was the price of convincing Louis to come upstairs. So Simon breathed a sigh of relief, kicked Lou out of the room, and told me on the spot that he wanted me on crew for the next tour.”

She and Louis both snicker, and Harry is laughing again, that full-bellied laugh Louis had caught him sharing with Eleanor in his room-- like he’s just heard the best joke of his life. Even with the camera covering him, his face is so open, so easily delighted by Louis’s antics. His joy is effortless, and yet it feels like a treat for Louis to be the one drawing it out of him. He takes a couple more pictures and lets the camera drop to his stomach, so that he can give Louis a double thumbs up.

“And with that, I think we’re done,” he announces, beaming. “Brilliant job, Louis! Told you it would be painless. And thank you for your help, Eleanor.” He offers her a thumbs up as well, but his eyes remain focused on Louis. “These shouldn’t need more than a little light editing, so I’ll sort everything out and send the final prints to you by email some time tomorrow.”

“Sounds good.” Eleanor, still giggling, shakes Harry’s hand again. “I know the timing got mixed up, but thanks for staying and helping us.”

“Yeah, thank you.” Louis puts out his hand to shake, smile a little shy again, and Harry grabs it firmly with both of his.

“No problem at all. It was lovely meeting you both.” And he really does mean it; his genuineness seems to emanate off him, audible in his voice and visible in his features.

“Do you need help with any of this?” Louis gestures vaguely to the screen and lights around him.

“No, no, I’ve got it.” Harry tucks the camera away in a protective case, and moves to dismantle the lighting stand. “It won’t take long.”

“Take your time.” Louis flops back on the couch, glaring moodily at the notepad of lyrics Eleanor left on it. “I’ll just sit here and fantasize about drinking gin straight from the bottle and mourning what’s left of my career.”

“There is no need for this melodrama,” Eleanor says with a roll of her eyes, sitting next to him and giving his knee a squeeze. “I told you, there are other lyricists. And there’s still plenty of time for you to write something amazing. A lot can happen in ten days, you know.”

“I don’t mean to pry, but what did you hate about those lyrics? What is Taylor looking for?” Harry asks as he starts taking down the green screen.

“She wants a song – a duet – about strength in relationships,” Louis answers. “And I hated the lyrics because while they would be perfectly serviceable for any eighteen-year-old pop star desperate to get on the radio, I can’t quite see a married mother of three get excited to kick off a highly anticipated comeback career on a song about a hookup at a club.”

“What, so she can’t sing about going to clubs anymore just because she’s got kids? That isn’t very feminist of you.” His tone is bland, but Harry’s eyes sparkle.

“ _No,_ you know what I mean,” Louis retorts. “She’s built her whole career on cutesy love songs and a wholesome image. And in any case, this is, like I said, a duet, and _I_ don’t want to sing about picking up a woman in a club.”

“Fair enough. So what _do_ you want to write and sing about?”

“The prompt was strength, so probably something about the enduring power of love, or whatever. I don’t know.” Louis sighs. “Honestly, I’m lost. That’s why I need a lyricist.”

“You don’t write lyrics?”

“No, I, uh…I was always better at the melodies. Never did have a way with words. I once tried to rhyme _goodbye_ with everything from _lie_ to _pumpkin pie_ , so.”

“That’s…unconventional, but certainly not unsalvageable,” Harry insists. “You could work with that.”

“Yeah? How?”

Harry considers. “Ummm… _I’ve been left missing since our last goodbye, like Thanksgiving without a pumpkin pie_?”

Louis stares.

For a breath, no one speaks. Eleanor and Harry exchange uncertain glances while Louis sits, as static as a freeze-frame.

“I, uh – I’m sorry,” Harry stammers, clearing his throat. “I’ll just—”

“No – no, that’s _wonderful_ ,” Louis announces. His eyes are as wide as coins, like he’s witnessing some kind of miracle. Which – with Harry’s perfect curls and absurd dimple and apparently magical ability to rhyme on the spot, he kind of is. “Can you finish the verse?”

Harry’s expression goes blank.

“You know, like with another couplet?” Louis clarifies wildly, impatiently. “Or you can go free verse, I don’t care.” He is literally on the edge of his seat on the couch, blue eyes burning.

Yet, Harry’s face stays impassive, as he picks up his bag and the screen and the lights in his arms, edging towards the door. “I’m not – um, I have to go.” He says this in a near monotone.

And if Louis weren’t so desperate to unspool the knotted brain of this mysterious poet that has just buzzed into his apartment and his life, he would have paused a moment to admire how quickly Harry could transform from the giddy, quirky charmer who took his pictures to this inscrutable, nervous person attempting to make a polite getaway.

But as it is, inscrutability and nerves will not do.

“Please don’t go yet,” Louis implores. He even stands, which appears to startle Harry even more. “Can you – can you finish the verse? Just real quick.”

Harry’s brows furrow, falling almost comically low over his eyes, like thick dark horizontal clouds over his stormy green irises. “I’m not sure,” he says at last, his voice measured, uncertain.

“Can you try? Because frankly I never thought that rhyme could ever come to anything, but you just—you made it come to something.” A beat. “Please?”

The silence hangs between them, swelling with Louis’s anticipation and Harry’s wariness. Harry has collected all his belongings, and one of his feet is turned towards the door, but he hasn’t made another motion to leave, and his other foot is pointed towards Louis. Louis expects him to avert his gaze, but he doesn’t do that either; his eye contact is calm, steady. He doesn’t need to blink as much as other humans do, it seems, so his stare feels unsettling. He’s difficult to read like this, stripped of his friendly charm: where Louis’s mouth is open, his jaw slack, Harry’s is resolutely closed. He nibbles his lower lip, momentarily distracting Louis with how plump it is, but offering no words.

Louis runs a hand through his hair, lets his face go even softer; he is about to ask again, but Eleanor interjects, getting up from the sofa and walking up to Harry. “Do you want me to take those down to your car for you?” She holds her hands out for the equipment.

Harry starts, eyeing her cautiously. “All right,” he says. “It’s the beat-up gray Corolla at the end of the block. Keys are here…”

He glances down to his left thigh. Eleanor hesitates, but then digs her hand into his pocket. Louis blushes a little, at the way she digs around to get a grip on the keys – his jeans are thin and skin-tight, she’s standing so close to him that she must feel his breath on her neck, his hair against the side of her face – but in a second, she manages to pluck his keys out, and she grips them tightly in her palm.

“I’ll be back,” she says over her shoulder, shutting the door behind her.

“Harry, please finish the verse,” Louis pleads the moment the lock clicks. “Look—” He scrambles to the piano bench, plays a couple of chords – the beginnings of what he’d tinkered with for Eric. “ _I, I, I’ve been left missin’ since our last goodbye…like Thanksgiving Day without pumpkin pie_ …” He finishes the barebones of the phrase with one hand, leaving the melody like a blank space. “Just two more lines will do it. Indulge me, _please._ ”

“Er…” Harry chews pensively on a hangnail. Louis plays the phrase again, hoping to inspire him, but Harry is like a computer in screensaver mode, quiet so long that Louis can’t possibly imagine what’s going on inside his head.

Then, finally—

“ _But Christmas is ‘round the corner, holly and champagne, and the end sounds like a great place to start again._ ”

“Fucking _brilliant_ ,” Louis breathes. He plays the verse back with the chords this time, and all four lines, and for a minute it’s like he’s twenty-one and having epiphanies with his bandmates again, screwing around on the piano and figuring out something to say. It’s a rough snippet of music, and just two couplets worth of lyrics, but it feels better than anything Louis has composed in years.

“Do you hear this? You just wrote a verse. Right here, right now. You want to hear it again?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before he plays it back, more confidently now.

Harry’s aloof exterior cracks: his half-grin is like the first wild daisy of spring, shy but true. “That sounds…cool, actually.”

“Have you ever written a song before? Or a poem, or anything?”

But where Louis is urgent, Harry mulls in unhurried leisure. “Sometimes, here and there – you know, like everyone does – some poems and stuff. I’ve taken a class. But other than that, no.”

“Would you consider doing it again?”

Harry blinks twice. His eyes go wider, but his mouth shrinks into a pucker, making him look like a surprised child.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

The idea crystallizes in Louis’s mind as the words come pouring out. “Like – I don’t know, would you be up for writing a song with me, maybe?”

“Write a _song_ ?” He says it like one might say _build a rocketship_ or _hack the Pentagon_. “I think you may have the wrong idea.”

“It’s just one song.” The idea sounds better the longer Louis entertains it. “It’s two verses, a chorus, and a bridge. I’d need – a weekend of your time, tops. Or any two days. Consecutive, nonconsecutive. Morning, afternoon – middle of the night, if you like.”

“I couldn’t possibly write a song for Taylor Swift, Louis.” Harry’s tone carries a note of finality, but Louis waves it away with a flick of his wrist.

“By myself, neither can I, mate – which is why I need you.”

“But I don’t write songs!”

“I thought we just established that you did?” Louis plays the chords again, his eyebrow arched in challenge. “I do the melody and the arrangements, you write a few sane lyrics – you’d be doing me a kindness. And, in return, a generous paycheck and a Taylor Swift songwriting credit would go a long way in helping you pick up starry-eyed girls in clubs. You’d be doing yourself a kindness too.”

Harry pauses, and Louis is genuinely curious to hear whether he objects to the purposeful gendering of his potential sex partners. He doesn’t, though; he’s still hung up on the small matter of writing a song for a singer he’s grown up listening to.

“I…need to think about it,” he says eventually.

“Understandable.” Louis nods to underscore the point, feeling a little like an overenthusiastic poodle nipping at the heels of an unruffled sheepdog. “I, uh – can give you my number? And I have a show tomorrow night, six o’clock. It’s for this regional Kappa Alpha Theta meeting at the Hilton in Midtown. You can, um…find Eleanor, and she’ll get you through, if you’d like to see it.”

It takes some effort to say this, to hold Harry’s gaze – Louis can’t remember the last time he’s personally invited anyone to one of his shows – but it’s worth it, when Harry beams, eyes crinkling sweetly.

“I’ll see if I can make it,” he says. “Thanks.”

“Thank _you._ For today, and the pictures. And for considering my…my proposal.” The blush is back; Louis can only hope it’s not too embarrassingly obvious.

“Your number?” Harry takes his phone out of his right pocket, hands it to Louis.

“Yes, of course.” He inputs the digits quickly, putting in his first name but not his last. “Please let me know, by phone or in person.”

“Will do.” Harry slips his phone away, salutes Louis. He laughs, despite himself, and toes the rug under his coffee table. “El should be back with your keys, and I’ll—”

“Hi!” With impeccable timing, Eleanor bursts through the door, startling them both. “Everything’s in the trunk, Harry, I hope that’s—”

She stops there, with Louis’s intensifying blush. Harry takes the keys from her hand, plasters a smile to his face.

“That’s fine, thank you,” he says in a rush. “Nice meeting you. Bye for real this time.”

“I’ll see you soon, I hope,” Louis finishes weakly.

Harry waves one more time, then disappears out the front door. This leaves Eleanor, confused, and Louis, somehow light-headed.

“You’ll see him soon, you hope?” She crosses her arms, biting down a smile.

“I asked him to come to the Kappa thing tomorrow. No big deal,” Louis sniffs.

“Is that _all_ you asked him?”

She wiggles her eyebrows, and Louis admits defeat, resting his elbows on the piano and burying his face in his hands.

“I asked him to be my lyricist,” he mumbles in despair, “because he uttered _Christmas is ‘round the corner_ and _the end sounds like a great place to start again_ with a straight face, and I swear he’s the answer to all my prayers.”

“ _Lou!_ ” Eleanor all but cackles, sliding next to Louis on the piano bench and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “A date and a job offer in the space of an hour. This has to be a record.”

“It isn’t a date,” Louis whines. “He probably won’t even come.”

“Did he ask for your number?”

“I offered it.”

“I think he’ll come,” she says confidently. “I’m willing to bet our next dinner on it.”

“ _No_.”

“Well, I’ll make sure I let security know to look for one Harry Styles, just in case.” She winks smugly, retiring to his bedroom while Louis stays put, makes dying elephant groans into his palms.


	3. Chapter 3

 

The Hilton’s backstage area, where Louis is attempting to prepare for the Kappa Alpha Theta performance, is disappointingly crowded. The crew setting up isn’t large, but the square footage is small and the sound guys keep bumping into each other, spilling their coffee and swearing loudly over their Bluetooths. There isn’t a dressing room, or any quiet place for Louis to clear his head before he performs, so he settles for the men’s bathroom, taping a hand-scrawled sign to the door that warns of an overflowing toilet. No one is likely to bother him there after that, so he spreads his things out over the limited sink space and wills the buzzing in his brain to calm down. Two beers later, and he’s still not drunk enough to calm this anxiety.

Louis should be better at this than he is. He’s built his whole career off live performances. But it somehow never gets any easier – not at eighteen, or twenty-two, or thirty-one. Louis’s heart is ice in his chest, and his stomach is doubled-over in tight painful knots, and every insecurity he’s ever had piles up in his head like a massive traffic accident, crumpled metal and broken glass and engines on fire, choking up everyone’s lungs with smoke. Choking up Louis’s lungs with dread.

He tells himself he’s fine, it’s fine, everything’s going to be fine. The usual lies. He looks presentable enough, at least: his pants are clean, and his dark purple button-up is ironed, and he remembered to wash his hair this afternoon. He faces down his fear-lit eyes in the mirror, leaning in close so he can see every shade of blue in his own irises, and tries to remind himself that singing a few songs for sorority girls is well within his capability. He bites down hard his lip, holds his own gaze, long and stern. _It’s been fine before, and it’ll be fine again_. _Focus._

He should be better at this – but he isn’t. He wasn’t meant to be a solo performer. He’s got a supporting-act kind of voice, his tone high and thin-- nowhere near as developed as Liam’s robust baritone, or Zayn’s powerful tenor, or even Niall’s bright tenor. Being on stage alone still scares the hell out of him.

He was not the one who was supposed to have a solo career.

The album was a revenge fantasy gone horribly wrong, and this new thing he has going now, as a relic of One Direction trying pitifully to reduce rich four-part arrangements into a single melodic line that fit within his register, was launched as a move of existential and financial desperation. He needed the money and the purpose that came with knowing he’d accomplished something worthwhile, even if it was only in his past – and, well, the fans still turned out, still shrieked hysterically at the privilege of sharing a venue with him for the evening. They were overjoyed to see him perform again, and he was profoundly relieved that such was the case.

He didn’t expect things to unfold in this way, seeking out chances to stand on stage by himself and subject audiences to his solitary vocals – but this is what his life is now. This is what he does. He wants to believe it’s going to be fine, tonight and every other night, but he understands that it doesn’t ultimately matter whether or not it’s fine. It’s all he has. He will swallow the fear, sing, and keep singing, for as long as people will indulge him.

He is fluffing his hair into the hedgehog mess he was famous for as a kid when Eleanor enters the bathroom, makes him start. Her face is irritable with stress, but also flickering with amusement at the overflowing toilet sign she’s holding in her hand.

“This was a nice touch,” she remarks, taping it to the mirror and covering up Louis’s reflection. “Are you ready? Do you need help with anything, or can we go get you warmed up?”

“Let’s warm up.”

“Excellent.” She turns around to exit the bathroom and starts typing a text message, Louis following behind her.

“By the way,” she says, not looking up, “I scheduled you for a meeting on Thursday with Edna Samuels, another lyricist. She just confirmed.”

“Hopefully I won’t need to keep that appointment. Harry said he’d get back to me.”

“Right, but it’s good to have a backup plan. And Edna’s worked with Sara Bareilles and Imogen Heap, so I think you’ll fare better with her than Eric Reynolds.”

“Please do not utter that name in my presence,” Louis says as they enter the backstage area. “I’m still trying to recover from the psychological damage of having to read those lyrics with my own two eyes.”

Eleanor snickers. “Yeah, all right. Now, if you don’t mind, that nice gentleman over there has your mic and earpiece, and he wants you to test them out quickly to make sure they’re in working order. Think you can handle it?”

“Does it really matter what I think?”

“No, but I know how you like to pretend sometimes.” She claps him on the shoulder, then gives him a playful push towards the gray-haired man at the other end of the room brandishing a microphone in Louis’s general direction. He pulls a face at her, but obliges, and tests out the mic and earpiece. Both seem to be working, so he retires to a quiet-ish corner of the space to run a few scales.

Presently, he hears himself being introduced – and then Eleanor is dragging him forward towards the stage, squeezing his wrist twice like she does.

“You’ll be great,” she whispers in his ear before he goes on.

And, once he sees the audience before him – some two hundred women of varying ages – eagerly clapping and cheering his name, Louis lets himself believe her.

“Hello and good evening, Thetas! It’s great to see you!” He makes eye contact with a couple of women in the front row, who promptly lose their minds. “Are you guys ready? Let’s hear you!”

He lets the crowd scream ever louder, soaking in their energy, letting it buoy his naturally boisterous stage presence: in all their excitement, they forget, they maybe don’t even realize, how much he needs them in order to do his job. They give him that bare-minimum level of confidence to survive one more performance, one more night. They believe he can do it, and so he does.

He gives the performance everything he can muster – hopes it’ll keep being enough.

\--

When it’s over, and Louis is chugging a water bottle backstage, Eleanor has one of her evil genius smiles on her face as she arrives to greet him – and it doesn’t take long to figure out why. Trailing behind her is a familiar face: Harry Styles, accompanied by a woman. She’s got blonde curls, but the same mouth, the same wide smile. Louis feels his own face light up when he meets Harry’s eye; it is surprisingly good to see him.

“You have guests!” Eleanor announces. “They came partway through, and wanted to say hello.”

“Sorry for being late,” Harry says. “My sister was having trouble getting a babysitter.”

“But my neighbor pulled through, so here we are! Gemma Bryant,” she says, grabbing his hand to shake. “I’m a huge One Direction fan, and you were _amazing_ tonight!”

“Thank you!” Louis laughs. “Here, let’s have a hug.”

“ _Yes!_ ” She eagerly accepts his hug, almost unwilling to let go. “I promised myself I’d be cool about this, but it’s kind of like the ultimate wish fulfillment for my sixteen-year-old self, so—” She takes her phone out of her bag, crowds in next to Louis’s face and holds it up above them. “Selfie!” Both of them pose for her camera, and she sighs proudly.

“Thank you so much!”

“Sure,” Louis laughs.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to Instagram the shit out of this.” She gives Harry a giddy thumbs-up, and steps aside to post the picture to her various social media accounts. Louis’s eyes, naturally, settle on Harry once more. He’s watching his sister with fond amusement, the dimple in his cheek like a crater.

“You know I’m going to ask,” Louis says, reclaiming Harry’s attention. “Have you thought about my proposal – to be my lyricist?” He cringes a little inside, but holds his ground.

Harry clears his throat, regulating his expression into something more somber and neutral. “I have thought about it,” he says.

“And?”

“And…I still-- I don’t…know.” He draws the word out tentatively, his tone like flat soda. “I’m not really a writer.”

“Yeah? Finish the couplet— _I’m standing at your door at the crack of dawn._ ”

Harry blinks. “No…?”

“Go on, just. Anything. Say anything.”

“I don’t – Louis, I said I’m not a writer.”

“And so I have dutifully refrained from offering you a pen and paper. Finish the couplet. _I’m standing at your door at the crack of dawn._ ”

Harry sighs in a way that reminds Louis irresistibly of Lottie. “Umm…I dunno, _I’ve got this stalker habit I need to work on_?”

Louis deliberates. “Fair. That was a terrible prompt. Okay, uh – _roses are red, violets are blue_.”

“A little cliché, don’t you think?”

“Which is why I’m interested to hear your take.”

Harry sighs again, more pointedly.

“Come on, please?”

“ _Roses are red, violets are blue, this is really awkward, please let me refuse you._ ”

He sounds rushed, embarrassed, like he’s said something mortally insulting – but Louis just throws his head back and laughs. “Don’t you see what’s happening here, Harry?”

“No…” Harry sounds genuinely confused, his tone even flatter.

“Even when you’re sassing me, you’re a better lyricist than anyone I’ve tried – and failed – to work with in a decade,” Louis says. “You have…something. I don’t know what it is yet, but I like it. Please work with me.”

Harry’s face is at war with itself: his eyes are wide, maybe even hopeful, but his mouth purses like a tiny vivid rosebud, and his jaw is tense. He doesn’t want to say yes, but he doesn’t want to say no, either. He shifts his weight restlessly from one leg to the other, glancing around him as though expecting someone to be watching – but there’s only Gemma, who is sneaking candid photos of Louis and mouthing _come on, Haz!_ She looks from Harry to Louis and back, nodding encouragingly.

“I, um…” Harry runs a hand through his hair, his pale cheeks flushed. “I have a busy few days at work, but I could come by on Wednesday, and we could try?”

Today is Sunday, and the song is due next Wednesday, which cuts rather finely into their available time, but Louis is too ecstatic to argue.

“Excellent!” He has to restrain himself from enveloping Harry in a crushing hug. He settles instead for a vigorous shake of his hand. “You know where I live, so I’ll see you Wednesday at – what time is good for you?”

“I can do three?”

“Perfect!”

“Okay.” Harry relaxes a little into a tight smile. “See you then.”

“Great, yeah. Thank you. And thanks for coming tonight.” He addresses this to Gemma as well, who comes forward and gives Louis another hug. “It was lovely to meet you.”

“You too!” She squeezes him tightly before releasing him.

“Bye, Louis.” Harry waves, and grips Gemma’s arm, leads her away. She glances back a couple of times, thrilled when Louis makes eye contact; but within seconds, she’s swallowed up by the crowd, and Louis is left standing where he is, a stupid grin playing on his lips. _Harry did say yes_.

“So I’m guessing that went well,” Eleanor says presently, appearing at his side with crossed arms and a smug expression. “Can I cancel on Edna Samuels?”

“Yeah. Harry’s coming over at three.” Louis pumps his fist in the air in celebration, making Eleanor chuckle.

“Okay, I’ll let her know you can’t make it. I _knew_ he’d come tonight. Didn’t I tell you?”

“Yes, you did.”

“He’s _nice_ , Lou,” she says, a little too meaningfully. “And thoughtful. And a damn good photographer; he sent me your headshots earlier today, and they were excellent.”

“Well, that’s great, because we’re going to spend the day on Wednesday trying to write a song, and I am depending on him for my livelihood, so your approval of him is just the cherry on top.”

Eleanor bumps Louis’s shoulder with hers, smirking. “I can’t wait to see what kind of love song that crotchety old brain of yours is going to come up with.”

“We’ll see, I suppose.”

“Right. Well, while you were being so charming over here, the Theta people asked me if you’re up for pictures and autographs for an hour. What should I tell them?”

“Normally, I would’ve said no – but I am, in fact, feeling charming today, so tell them forty-five minutes, because that’ll bleed over into the hour they actually want, and then come rescue me.”

“Okay. I’ll get a table set up, and fetch you when it’s ready.” She is just about to leave, but then she pauses, lets her face soften. “It really was a great show tonight, you know. I hope you’re proud of yourself, because I’m proud of you. I know you’re in a bit of a state right now with the Taylor thing, but you are capable of so much more than you know.”

His immediate impulse is to be sarcastic, dismissive; the room is so chaotic, there’s still this signing to do, and Eleanor is about to run off in a second. But the snarky remark dies in Louis’s throat; instead he blushes, averts his gaze, his smile shy.

“Thanks, El,” he murmurs.

She leans in, smelling like expensive sweetness, and presses a lip-glossed kiss to his cheek. “See you in a minute, Lou.”

\--

Louis awaits Wednesday afternoon with great trepidation. He doesn’t sleep well. Lottie calls a couple of times, inexplicably to “check in,” which makes Louis think that Eleanor tipped her off about the meeting. She does this, sometimes-- chastises him for not talking to his family enough, and then calls his family herself since she’s decided he’s hopeless. Louis can only be grateful that Eleanor isn’t worried enough to call in the entire cavalry; he comes from a big family, a mother and stepfather and five sisters and a brother, and so he is glad to only deal with Lottie’s saccharine calls.

On the big morning, he’s awake early, thanks to an anxious stomach housing enough butterflies to maintain a small country. Though he is generally loathe to do any physical activity outside of grudgingly-scheduled gym time, he goes on a short jog in the neighborhood, and picks up more fruit along the way, remembering how excited Harry got about the bananas last time. He pays a bit of extra attention to his appearance when he returns to the apartment, washing his hair and shaving his scruff and wearing a clean t-shirt with his best black jeans. Eleanor texts around lunchtime, asking if he needs company, but Louis declines. This feels like something he has to do himself.

Harry arrives promptly at three o’clock, texting Louis that he was outside before buzzing the intercom. When Louis opens the front door to let him in, he is cognizant less of this tall, curly-haired person smiling at him, and more of the heavenly scent wafting from the dish in his large hands.

“Is that _fresh bread?_  And _cookies_?” Louis asks by way of greeting.

“Yeah,” Harry laughs.

“You’re an angel.” Louis whisks the plate away, places it reverently on the coffee table in the living room. Harry brought quite an array of carbohydrates – banana bread, bread with some kind of nut, some pound cake, and chocolate chip cookies. “Where did you get all this?”

Harry beams. “I made it myself!”

“Seriously? Just for me?” Louis, in the middle of snarfing pound cake, stares.

“Well, no, not exactly. My sister and I own a bakery. That’s where I’ve been all day, and we had some extras, so…I thought it would help. You know. With creativity.” He holds up a legal pad, the other item in his hands that Louis hadn’t noticed. “No one should write anything on an empty stomach.”

“I like the way you think,” Louis approves. “I also got fruit this morning, if you want any.”

“Later. For now, um – do you want to get started?”

“Yes. Yes, let’s do that.” He helps himself to a generous slice of the nut bread, and gestures to the couch. “Sit.”

Harry obliges, looking somehow too big for the thing; his limbs are long and lanky, his legs capable of resting comfortably on the coffee table that Louis had purposely kept just out of reach of his own ankles. He makes himself at home, pulls a pen out of his pocket and clicks it a few times, staring meditatively at the blank page. Louis takes a seat on the piano bench, plays a middle C.

“So.”

Harry cranes his neck to see Louis over the top of the piano. “So.”

“I’d told you, right, that the prompt was strength.”

“Yes.”

“So we should do something along those lines.”

“How does this usually work?” Harry asks. “Do you come up with a tune, and I write the words? Or do I write words first, and you come up with a tune to match?”

“It can go either way, really. But…I dunno, I tend to work best when I’ve got lyrics to start.”

“Okay.” Harry clicks his pen again. “Ummm. So, strength.”

“Yeah.”

He continues clicking the pen. It’s a bit nerve-wracking, actually, but Louis remains silent.

“Strength – I mean, it’s such a broad concept, you know?” Harry runs a hand through his hair, leaning back against the sofa. “What does strength mean to you? Who makes you strong?”

“Who makes—what?” Louis blanches.

“I was just asking, what does strength mean to you? Who makes you strong?” When he catches the crease between Louis’s eyebrows, he adds, “I figure it’s a good place to start, you know, for lyrics. Personal experiences and such.”

“Who makes _you_ strong?” Louis counters.

“My sister.” This rolls off Harry’s tongue so easily, without a second thought, as though it costs him nothing to admit. “The bakery was mostly her idea; she did so much research, and she was the one to really get it off the ground, and she did it in a totally shit economy. I did a business degree in school, but she’s got this real knack for it, you know? She’s single-minded, totally fearless. She experiments with recipes on her days off, and she double-checks my bookkeeping, and she’s the center of that little world.”

“That’s impressive,” Louis says, and he means it. “What’s your bakery called?”

“Knead to Know.” Harry grins. “I came up with the name.”

Louis chuckles. “It’s terrible, but in a brilliant way.”

“Gemma chased me around with a rolling pin for ten minutes, but she eventually came to appreciate its true genius.” Harry’s dimple is ridiculous. “Now, your turn.”

“Uhh…” Louis clears his throat, fusses with his hair. It’s not that this is a difficult question: it’s just direct, and personal, and Harry’s casual but real interest in the answer is unnerving because Louis is a bit out of practice talking about himself to people who don’t already know him well. “Um…I guess I’d say El. Eleanor. My manager.”

“Right, yes. You guys have known each other a long time.”

“Yeah. And she…she does that too. Center of the universe, and all. I’d never get anywhere on time if she weren’t on my arse about everything.” He coughs uselessly. “So, with these lyrics…?” Louis looks expectantly at Harry, who frowns at the piano.

“You know, this thing makes it incredibly hard to see you. How did you and Eric even work here?”

The piano in the corner of the room is angled such that the bulbous breadth of it is perpendicular to the arm of the sofa. From the spot where Harry is sitting, all the way to the left, it is indeed difficult to make out much of Louis’s face or body language.

“Eric sat where I am,” Louis says, “and I sat where you are. He wrote, and messed around with some beats on my computer, and I decided on chord progressions with my guitar.”

“Okay, but how did you guys communicate if you can’t make proper eye contact without doing serious neck gymnastics?”

Now Louis is frowning too. “I don’t understand the question.”

“See, this is a problem,” Harry decides, standing up. “We need to move this piano. Or maybe the sofa. Or maybe both.” He makes to move the coffee table and rug across the room, to create space for the sofa.

“No, we are not going to move anything.” Louis stands as well, crossing his arms. “The sofa would look so awkward in front of the piano!”

“It’s only temporary.”

“And yet, hideous.”

“It’s practical,” Harry explains, a bit breathless as he begins dragging the sofa. His arms are long and lean, and the cut of his bicep deepens as he negotiates the three-seater around the piano. “I have to be able to see you. How else am I going to know what you’re thinking?”

“You make do with the sound of my voice rather than make a mess of my living room.” Louis scurries to the other side of the couch to try and pull it back, but Harry shakes his head, sending his curls awry.

“It’s harder to communicate if we’re cut off visually. I’ll put it back when we finish.” Harry plops down on the sofa, crossing his legs and balancing the notepad on his knee. “Now let’s go back to what you were saying about Eleanor.”

“I was done saying things about Eleanor.” Louis didn’t intend for this to come out so snarky, but as he re-seats himself on the piano bench, Harry and the three-seater sofa looming too close for comfort from this angle, he can’t regret it. “We’re supposed to be writing a song here, not my biography.”

“Right, yes, sorry.” Harry tries to arrange his features into brooding seriousness; his dimple gives him away, though. “But I do think we need to start by coming up with a story. Like, what the song is trying to say.”

“It doesn’t matter, really, anything will do.”

“How can you say that?” Harry’s eyebrows arch high, his eyes wide and scandalized. “How can you write a good song without having a solid story behind the lyrics?!”

“The story is that the speaker’s unidentified lover makes them feel strong. That was the prompt.”

“Yes, but what does that _mean_ ?” Harry draws out the word, long and deliberate. “In what _way_ does the lover make the speaker feel strong?”

Louis sighs. “We can say the speaker is Taylor and the lover is the husband. Calvin. Calvin makes Taylor strong.”

“I remember when they got divorced, it was all over the place.”

“I somehow managed to avoid it.”

“What a comfortable rock you must have lived under,” Harry says with a snort.

“Indeed it was.”

“Do you have your laptop? We could do some research.”

“ _Research_? On what?”

“Taylor and Calvin. See what she’s said on the record when she got remarried.”

Louis gives an almighty sigh. “Harry, as a bonafide ex-celebrity, I can tell you with authority that everything you read in articles and gossip rags – every single thing – is completely, one-hundred-percent fake. Pretend. Make-believe.”

“Well, yes,” Harry concedes, “but I just want a sense of, like, the story that people know. So we can use it for our song.”

“It’s fairly simple; I don’t need to Google them to figure it out. They were madly in love, but the stress of the industry was too much, so they broke up – except no one else understood either of them quite like the other did, so they got back together. Tale as old as time. Or, at least as old as the entertainment industry.”

“There was probably more to it than that,” Harry protests.

“Probably. But we’ll never know it, and anyway, it’s not relevant. We just have to write a song.”

“The song needs a story.” He starts clicking his pen again. “What story do you want to tell?”

“The one I just told you?”

Harry shoots him a look. “Louis.”

“We already have the story. We just need words. You don’t even have to rhyme if you don’t want to.”

“But _words_ is a very imprecise request. I don’t—okay, let’s try word association.”

“What?” Louis doesn’t bother to hide his confusion.

“Word association, to generate some ideas on how to phrase this story,” Harry presses. “When I say _strength_ , what do you think of?”

“Um. Iron?”

“Good, that’s good.” He writes this down on the notepad. “What else?”

“Iron, and steel – metal in general? And like. Ropes, knots, I don’t know.”

“So you think of sturdy things.”

“Right.” A pause. “What do you think of, then?”

“Hands,” Harry says. “And warmth. I don’t know why, I just get this image of two hands, holding tight to something. I think of holding on in general.”

“I’m sure a psychologist would have plenty to say to both of us,” Louis remarks.

“Probably.” Harry scribbles something else on the notepad. “So, what about something like, _iron and steel, we know this one’s real._  Like, it may rust, or oxidize, or take a knock, but it’s strong enough to withstand all that?”

“Okay. There’s a start.” Louis slides off the piano bench, helps himself to two cookies. “Is this for a verse or the chorus?”

“I’m not sure…”

And so it goes, as they eat their way through Harry’s collection of baked goods. They spend the rest of the afternoon negotiating, talking in circles, speaking in clumsy metaphor. Harry takes this seriously, brow furrowed in concentration as he pulls out his phone and Googles properties of iron and steel to help inspire him. He scribbles words on the notepad every so often, but crosses them out almost immediately, pen clicking as he broods over the battle-scarred face of the page. His honey-sweet smiles and good-natured humor – the goofiness that had initially charmed Louis while they took his headshots – dim in the face of his focus, his determination.

Somehow, this surprises Louis: he knew from the start that this was work, and Harry was helping him with a job, and yet he still finds himself unprepared for Harry’s professional side. His drawl is not laced with sly humor; his eyes are not playful and bright, crinkling at the corners when Louis makes a snide remark; even his curls are restrained, when, after an unproductive hour, Harry produces a hair-tie from his pocket and gathers his hair in a tight bun. Though Louis has only met Harry twice before, he is nonetheless surprised to see Harry sitting so still, searching the science of metals and not rhyming ‘goodbye’ and ‘pumpkin pie’ with a grin on his face.

No, he’s just _serious_ , as the sun sinks down towards the horizon, taking Louis’s optimism with it. For someone who could invent effortless couplets on the spot, Harry labors considerably now, second-guessing every line he comes up with, frown deepening. He remains fixated on this idea of narrative, of “what the story is,” mumbling under his breath about _metal_ and _cold_ and _rust_ and _that can’t be right, though, because we’re writing a love story and love stories are warm._

Louis tries to interject, say that the image is fine and they should just get some lines down, maybe tinker with a melody – but whenever he does so, Harry waves his hand impatiently, says it’s not right yet, and continues to scribble on the notepad. He’s started an impressive collection of doodles and short phrases, looping around the page without any consideration for the printed lines. Besides the deepening furrow between his eyes, his expression is impassive, but Louis can tell he’s beginning to get frustrated. And, now that it’s getting to eight o’clock, and they still haven’t written a single viable word, he shares the feeling.

“Look,” he says eventually, “it doesn’t have to be perfect right now. We still have a few days to figure it all out. But we have to start somewhere. Can we just commit to that line you came up with about _iron and steel, we know this one’s real_ so we can expand on it?”

“I _have_ tried to expand on it,” Harry says, “and it’s not right. It’s not working.”

Harry has made this claim several times over the past few hours – and now Louis’s nerves, grated like cheese by the tension of unproductivity and the lack of dinner in his stomach, are wearing quite thin.

“It doesn’t have to be right,” he says, hearing the crankiness in his own voice. “It only has to exist right now. Write whatever. Anything is fine.”

“Anything is _not_ fine,” Harry insists. “It _does_ have to be right. You have entrusted me with your lyrics, the heart of the song. I can’t write crap.”

“I already know you’re a good writer. And anyway, I’m the one doing the melody and arranging, so I’ve got the heart of the song covered, don’t worry.”

Harry’s face falls like a rock off a cliff.

“What are you talking about? Do you really believe that lyrics aren’t as important as melody?”

“I mean…yeah.” Louis appears thrown by the sudden shift in conversation. “It’s a song. You have to _listen_ to it. If people wanted poetry, that’s a whole other thing, they can go read a book or something.”

“But a song is poetry set to melody. You need the poetry there for it to be…well, worth anything. The best melody in the world can’t compensate for weak lyrics.”

“And yet every time I turn on the radio, I find more proof that, in fact, it does,” Louis counters. “Shitty lyrics can be forgiven if they’re fun to sing along to with a catchy beat. But if you’ve got a mournful funeral march for a melody – well, no matter how beautiful your words are, it’s hard to enjoy because the whole thing makes you feel like someone’s died.”

Harry puts the notepad down beside him, undoes his bun so that his hair falls back over his shoulders; there is an energy about him again, as he engages Louis.

“Melody,” he says, “is like a first impression. It’s the initial introduction, the lust, the sex.” His gaze steady and unflinching and sparkling, causing prickles of heat on Louis’s neck. “But the lyrics – that’s when you really get to _know_ someone. When you talk to them, learn who they really are. And the radio – well, the radio is a club, and everyone’s drunk, and no one’s there to have a meaningful conversation. Which is why the radio is not a good example for what we’re trying to do here.”

“But—” Louis swallows, maintains his composure “—as sweetly idealistic as that sounds, the radio _is_ our goal. Taylor is not asking us to write this song because she wants a work of art to play at some indie dump for an audience of five, singing some mournful philosophical treatise. She wants a song she can sell. A song on the radio for everyone to sing along to. _That_ is what it’s still about, not a meaningful conversation.”

“And if that’s really what _you_ wanted, you would have stuck with the Eric Reynolds version of this song,” Harry points out. “But you didn’t. You thought it was trite. Because lyrics _do_ matter, and it’s clear to me that you want to have a stake in the words you’re singing. Maybe you don’t want to sing a mournful philosophical treatise – but you do want it to mean _some_ thing. Which is what I’m trying to do.”

And, for once, Louis is humbled into silence.

But only briefly.

“It’s not that lyrics aren’t important. It’s that I don’t need a high standard for lyrics. I just need them to exist, so I can build the music around them. So, I’m not looking for Shakespeare, or Joni Mitchell. I just need something workable. Anything.”

“Well, this imagery isn’t workable. Iron and steel.” Harry has not picked up the notepad again. “We’ll have to come up with something else.”

“Sure. Fine.”

“Because it’s too…severe, you know?” he continues, more to himself than Louis. “Metal is cold. It’s severe. It’s restrictive, and inflexible. And that’s not a good metaphor for a love song about strength. A love song like that should be warm.”

“You’ve mentioned that before. What do you mean?”

“I mean that we need another image. We need a better story. And…” Harry checks his watch. “And we’ve been at this for hours, and I’m a bit knackered, and I think we should end this for today.”

“Wait. What do you mean?” Louis’s blood immediately spikes with panic. “You can’t just—we haven’t written anything yet!”

“I know. I’m sorry.” And he does sound truly apologetic. “But I’m blocked, and I don’t think sitting around here is going to help. And I have to be up at three in the morning for the bakery anyway, so I’d like to get some sleep before then.”

“Harry—”

“I’ll keep brainstorming,” he assures Louis. “Maybe something will come to me later tonight? And we can meet up again tomorrow?”

He phrases it like a question, eyes expectant, but he’s already standing, legal pad in hand, edging towards the front door. Louis wants to argue, but instead sighs like a deflated balloon.

“Okay. All right. What time works for you tomorrow?”

“I can be here by six.”

“Not earlier?”

“No. I’m sorry.” Harry bites his lip. “I’ll try to come up with something, I promise. See you tomorrow?”

This one really is a question, earnest and tentative. Harry stands facing the piano, clutching the pad, all messy curls and pretty eyes, a nervous toe dragging across the floor. Louis tries to muster some indignation, but all he has is weariness and a flat smile.

“Yeah, see you tomorrow.” Louis nods, and Harry takes his leave.

The moment the door closes, Louis bangs an ugly, frustrated chord with all ten fingers, and closes the piano lid with a resolute snap.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, I know the fandom on Tumblr has many passionate Thoughts and Feelings about which Hogwarts house the guys would be sorted into. However, the Hogwarts house thing is just mentioned in passing in this chapter, and all opinions are my own, so if on the off chance you do wanna fight me about it, swerve on the comments section here and come at me on Tumblr at @itsyouzaynie.

 

 

The second ugly, ten-fingered piano chord in twenty-four hours, and— “This isn’t working!”

It is just after nine o’clock on Thursday night, with only five full days left of songwriting time to go, and Louis is just about ready to give up. He slams the piano lid with such force that even Harry, so far a much less neurotic presence than Louis, blinks like a startled deer.

“Louis—” he tries, but Louis is no longer content to sit at the piano bench, as he has for the past three hours. He gets up, starts pacing the room like a thunderstorm; the agitation of the last couple of days has morphed from timid fear and insecurity, to real resentment.

“Louis, I understand you’re frustrated—”

“There isn’t a lot of time left for us, Harry.” Louis exerts considerable energy to maintain an even tone; his blue eyes flash like an incoming thunderstorm. “And we’ve been at this for hours, but we still have nothing. _Nothing_.”

Indeed: the sky is pitch black, and the page open on Harry’s notepad is a nightmare of scratched-out words and doodles, and the only sign of progress in this room are the empty packets of cookies that Harry had brought from his bakery when he arrived at the agreed-upon time of six o’clock. Harry had not, in fact, been inspired over the previous night, and came with no notes, no leads. So he and Louis had proceeded to eat the cookies, and later drink beer, while Harry clicked his pen and Louis’s fingers wandered aimlessly on the piano and the atmosphere in the living room grew increasingly tense, as Harry failed to find words and Louis began losing his patience.

He wanted to stop caring, wanted to just give up, hide under the covers and call it a night. His confidence had been steadily falling since the previous day like an excruciating sunset, sinking low and bloody in his gut with each passing hour. He already knew he was dried up creatively, and his career was pretty much over, and there was nothing left for him to do but give in his official surrender to Harry, Eleanor and Taylor, retire at the age of thirty and die alone. But somehow, Louis still has a little bit of anger left in him – a final show of despair that this, his last-ditch effort, was in fact as fruitless as every other effort he’s made at writing a decent song in eight years. It’s over, he’s failed, he’s an embarrassment, and Eleanor will need a new client, one who actually makes her money and is worthy of her energy.

He’s wildly running these procedures through in his mind, making plans for how to break this news to the few people in the world he actually cares about, when he feels a hand on his shoulder. He jerks as though he’s been burned, and looks up. Harry, eyes wide with empathy, stares back at him. He’s even taller from this angle, from down below, where Louis is sitting on the piano bench and generally shrinking in the maelstrom of his anguish.

“Louis. Are you alright?” The cadence of Harry’s voice is generally slow, but this time it’s slow with careful concern.

“I…think so.” Louis bites his lip, runs a hand through his hair. His breaths are quick and shallow. “I, um. I think we should just call it a night. We’re not getting anywhere, and I don’t want to waste any more of your time. Or mine.” He can’t bring himself to meet Harry’s gaze.

Harry is quiet for several long moments. His hand doesn’t move from Louis’s shoulder, much to Louis’s surprise. He waits for Harry to sigh and agree, or at least step back – but he doesn’t.

Instead, Harry announces, “We need to take a walk.”

“What are you talking about?” Louis’s eyes flick upward to determine whether or not he’s joking.

“You’re right, this isn’t working. We’ve been cooped up too long. And we need dinner, too. So let’s walk a few blocks, and you can tell me what’s good to eat around here, and we can pick something up.” Harry’s hand squeezes Louis’s shoulder – which is delicate enough on a regular day, but which feels extra frail when cupped in Harry’s enormous palm. “Come on, let’s go.”

Louis meets Harry’s eyes for real now, openly searching him for signs of jest, or impatience, or duplicity. He should be running for the hills, or at least ready to amicably give up on Louis. But Harry only removes his hand to pick up his notepad, pen and coat, go to the front door, and put on his boots – black, leather, with laces. Louis watches for a moment, his heart a jagged, half-thawed thing creating earthquakes of uncertainty in his ribcage, before dumbly walking to his room to fetch his beat-up black Converse.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks.

Harry smiles, actually _smiles_ at that. “Of course I am.”

“Okay then.”

Louis grabs his sweatshirt off a chair in the kitchen, locks the door behind the two of them, and sets off with Harry out of his building and into the cool New York night.

The evening is, at least, pleasant: it’s warm-ish for April, the sky cloudless, calm. Louis crosses his arms tighter in the sweatshirt, squints against the wind, while Harry's hair flies all over his face, into his eyes and mouth. Louis lives on a residential street, but a block on, there are a few shops and restaurants, and a park another block down. Harry’s gait is long and sure, but he is content to let Louis determine their course. They don’t speak for a few minutes, just getting used to moving side by side, letting the after-dark atmosphere soak into them. Louis has to admit that this breeze is kind of nice, after sitting inside all day.

“So, what are we supposed to be doing now?” he asks eventually. Harry is taller than him, so Louis has to peer up when speaking. Harry’s profile is strangely impressive, all serious mouth and eyelashes and long, handsome nose, skin ghostly in the dark.

“We’re just moving, getting the blood circulating,” he says. “And we should probably change the subject, too. Talk about something other than the song.”

“We don’t really have time for that.” With today already over, basically, there are only five real working days to go.

“This is all just part of the process.” Harry assures him.

“And what do you know about the process?” Louis is watching Harry’s face again. “You said it’s been awhile since you’ve written, which means you did write, once.”

“I did.” Harry pauses, purses his lips. “I took a course. Creative writing.”

“And?”

“And I learned that writing is about not forcing it, letting the words come to you when they’re ready. Writing is about…trust. Vulnerability.” Harry pauses meaningfully. “I know you used to write with Liam Payne. What was that like?”

An ice cube seems to fall down Louis’s throat, straight into a black hole somewhere between his heart and his stomach.

“It was fine. You know. As these things are.”

“But I _don’t_ know.” Harry licks his lips. “Can you tell me?”

“I’m sure there’s plenty of speculation in the blogosphere or the world of entertainment journalism,” Louis quips, something closing shut inside him. “It should be able to answer all of your questions.”

“You know it can’t. And even if it did, I’d rather hear it from you.”

Louis stops dead in the middle of the sidewalk, so suddenly that Harry keeps walking a few steps, has to stop too late and turn around, his expression puzzled as he takes in Louis’s small frame, his hostile face. There’s no reason for him to be hostile, Louis knows – it’s an innocent enough question – but the past is a dangerous thing. Louis indulges it only on certain occasions, on his terms, in his own time. And certainly not tonight, on the brink of kissing his career goodbye, for the sake of a curious, curly-haired baker standing on the street in hipster boots.

So he says, “Liam wrote most of the lyrics, and I wrote most of the music. It worked, and then it didn’t. That’s all.”

“I, um. I remember when the band broke up.” Harry appears to be weighing his words carefully as he speaks. “My sister was in mourning and all. And there were a lot of…rumors. Apparently you and Liam had a falling out?”

“So what?” Louis’s voice is tinged with defensiveness. And he registers that it shouldn’t be, because enough of this is general public knowledge, and Harry’s got that wide-eyed look again, and he doesn’t really mean any harm with these questions, and yet… “This kind of thing, bands breaking up – it happens all the time. People stop being able to work together. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“I can understand if it’s not your favorite thing to talk about. I’m only asking because I think it might help us work together better if we know a little bit about each other. About how we approach writing. I, um…I think it’s easier to collaborate when you know who you’re dealing with.”

“That puts me at a disadvantage, then, doesn’t it?” Louis is standing unusually stiff, his back ramrod straight. “My whole life is already splashed all over the Internet, but I don’t know anything about you.”

“I don’t really know anything about you, though,” Harry says. “I mean – okay, I know you were in that band and I know the band broke up, but I don’t know the details.”

“You could just Google me. I even have my own Wikipedia page.” Louis sounds insolent to his own ears, but some raw instinct in him insists on seeing this challenge through, tracking Harry’s reaction.

Harry looks a little nervous, but stands his ground. “I’m not going to Google you,” he says. “It’s your life, and your story, and…and I would really rather hear it from you. You should get to tell it the way you want to tell it.”

“That’s a minority opinion if I ever heard one,” Louis mutters, as the two of them resume walking down the street.

There was a myriad things he didn’t like about his job at the time, but the evaporation of his privacy was perhaps the most difficult for him to deal with. One Direction rose and fell as a brand before the Internet was readily available on smartphones, so this was less of a problem for them than it is for current pop stars, whose entire lives are chronicled online – but still, he never did get used to it, perfect strangers shouting his name on the street, and wishing him happy birthday, and wearing jerseys from his home football team in Doncaster to concerts. It was invasive, too much information in their hands, and yet it also felt weirdly clinical, because all they knew was factoids – names, dates, places. They didn’t know _him_ , the way he really was. All they knew was what they were allowed to know, and what they inferred from there. And they did infer plenty, filled up websites and blogs and magazines long after the band broke up – as though they had a right to anything they wanted, including the things he’d had to hide from everyone….

They’re moving, but the air feels still and breathless between them. Louis keeps his eyes firmly on the sidewalk, hands tucked away in the pockets of his sweatshirt. Harry waits until they’ve gone a block before he breaks the silence.

“Would it help if I told you about myself first? You can ask me whatever you want, and I’ll answer honestly.”

Louis chews on his lower lip. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He sounds sincere.

“Okay…uh, where were you born?”

“Holmes Chapel,” Harry answers promptly. “In Cheshire, England. That’s where I grew up.”

“Is Gemma your only sibling?”

“Yes.”

“How old are you?”

Harry’s grin is mischievous. “How old do you think I am?”

“Forty. No, wait – forty-five.”

“Close,” he laughs. “I’m twenty-eight.”

“Birthday?”

“February first.”

“Why did you move to New York?”

“Well, I’d always wanted to, since I was a kid. When I was applying to uni, I applied to NYU, but the scholarships weren’t enough for me to be able to afford it – international student and all – so I stayed in England, went to King’s College. Thought I would live in London my whole life.”

The words pour out of him with such ease and honesty, that Louis gradually lets his gaze shift upward, to Harry’s face. His features are inexplicably relaxed. “But a few years ago, Gem chucked her first husband for cheating on her, and she decided she wanted to come to New York City and open a bakery. So, she moved: she’d made off with a fair bit in the divorce, and she’d had her savings from before. And I was inspired by that, you know – just up and changing your whole life, because what you were doing wasn’t working – so I worked for a couple of years at every odd job I could find, and made it out here too. She was married by then, to Philip, the guy she’s with now. I lived with them, Gem and I both working and me babysitting when I could, and we opened the bakery two years ago. Took us a while to make enough money that I could move into my own place, but now I have one, and I still work with her at the bakery.”

Louis gives a low whistle, stares at him with actual, genuine surprise. “Wow. You weren’t joking about the honesty.”

“Of course I wasn’t. Why would I?”

“Because – I don’t know, we’re practically strangers? You don’t owe me anything?”

“Well, we can’t move beyond being strangers unless one of us gives and tells the other something real,” Harry points out, “and I don’t mind being the one to do it. You haven’t asked me anything difficult.”

“I could, though,” says Louis. “I could ask you something totally outrageous that you wouldn’t answer in a thousand years. Like…like, what’s the most embarrassing sex you’ve ever had?”

“What constitutes embarrassing sex, exactly?” Harry laughs. “Like, the most embarrassing position I’ve tried?”

“I don’t know. Anything that made you feel embarrassed.”

“Um…I guess, the first time I topped?” Harry’s still giggling, but there’s a mischievous twinkle to his eyes now. “I was in uni, and a bit too big for the guy, so he was terribly uncomfortable, and we never finished. He pretended to come because I guess he didn’t want to hurt my feelings, then he grabbed his clothes and rushed out of my room as fast as his sore arse would let him.”

Louis claps his hands to his mouth. “ _God._ I can’t believe you just told me that. Shameless braggart, you are.”

“Am not!”

“Your most embarrassing moment was when you were too _big_ for someone? What kind of absurd self-compliment is this?”

“It’s all true!” Harry insists, a blush finally lighting up his cheeks beneath the slanted sloping glow of the streetlamps. “And it was very embarrassing for me. I waited months before I tried topping again.”

“ _Shameless,_ ” Louis repeats, chuckling in spite of himself. “So now I know you sleep with men, and are usually a bottom. That’s quite a bit to tell a stranger.”

“We’re songwriting partners,” Harry points out. “I’m bisexual, actually, and you already told me during headshots that you were interested in men. And…I dunno, I think we could be friends.”

“You do, do you.” Louis feels a subtle blush creeping up on his cheeks as well.

“Yes.” Harry’s smile is radiant. “I do.”

“All right, friend, I have more questions to ask you.”

“Fire away.”

“You are going to regret this.”

“Maybe. But probably not.”

“Okay – um, best sexual experience you’ve ever had.”

“What is it with you and sex, Louis?” Harry doesn’t sound the least bit offended, though; his exasperation is gentle, fond. “Are you trying to embarrass me out of a personal conversation? Because you yourself just pointed out that I’m shameless.”

“I am aware – which is why I’m shamelessly exploiting your shamelessness for my own amusement.”

Harry laughs again, like a mirthful shout into the night. “Give me your worst.”

“I’m just getting warmed up.” Louis waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “Now, best sexual experience. Go.”

So Harry launches into a rambling explanation of his first ever time at eighteen years old, with his girlfriend at the time, Carly – a young black woman with some experience, who gave him a lecture before they began in pleasuring a lady with more than just a “jackhammer penis going at it for fifteen minutes.” When she was finished with a thorough description of good oral, Harry was more petrified than turned on, but she knew what she was doing and made it good and fun for both of them, her constant stream of jokes in his ear interjected with breathy moans and wild laughter – the only time Harry had ever laughed so much during sex.

“I’ve since realized I prefer being with men,” Harry says, grinning, “but the time with Carly was still probably the best I had.”

“You like that? Laughing during sex?” Louis is fascinated.

“I do. I like…talking, and communication. Sex should be an intense emotional thing, don’t get me wrong, but I think that if it’s too serious, it stops being fun. And sex should always be fun.”

“No guy since has ever told you jokes, then?”

“No, no, the stereotypes seem to be accurate on this particular matter: men always want to get to the main event, so their foreplay tends to be short and very joke-free.”

Louis chuckles again, this time wondrous. “Amazing.”

Harry grins as though Louis’s laugh is some sort of gift. He moves to nudge Louis’s shoulder, but has to hunch a little with his height, which only makes Louis’s smile wider, his eyes crinkling even smaller.

“Ask me something else,” Harry says, perfectly serious.

So, Louis does. The two of them keep walking, the sidewalks practically empty because it’s late on a Thursday night and this is a quiet neighborhood to begin with; and as they make their way, it almost feels like they’re the only two people left on Earth, their soft footsteps moving in sync, the streetlamps casting moving stripes of shadow and gold on their bodies as Louis asks his questions and Harry gives his detailed, meandering answers. Louis fires off each question like his mouth is a paintball gun with an endless supply of ammunition, but Harry always takes a couple of heartbeats to start a response – because even though he’s a spontaneous goofball with a sometimes filthy sense of humor, he’s thoughtful and precise, and he makes his words matter. He has something earnest to say about every one of Louis’s harebrained lines of inquiry.

And that’s the most mind-boggling thing about Harry: his casual willingness to talk about _anything_.

He’s effortless with questions about the bakery, his family, what his move to New York was like. He tells Louis that while he enjoyed studying business and sociology in university, he had always wished he were better read, especially in non-European poetry. If he could do school again, he would have done gender studies and comparative literature, and maybe taken a few more photography classes as well. Harry considers himself an amateur photographer – it’s how he and Nick Grimshaw had bonded – but “I’ve never taken it very far, never done extreme locations or high fashion or wildlife shoots or anything,” Harry explains with a sigh. “It would be cool to travel and try my hand at different subjects, keep a photo-diary of everything I see.”

“So why haven’t you?” Louis asks.

“Money, for one thing. Photography is an expensive hobby if you want to do it properly, like beyond Instagram filters on your phone. And then there’s my sister, and the bakery. I love being able to see her everyday and get to know her kids, and the work itself – like, making the cakes and pastries, the smell of fresh bread, working with my hands, being on my feet a lot. It suits me.”

Somehow, Louis is even more interested in this kind of thing than the go-to sex stuff. Because Harry has such pretty green eyes, and his hands are so animated and exuberant when he talks, and he has this unexpectedly charming delivery, his voice low and dry and a little flat, except when he’s indignant or excited and he yelps, or otherwise starts speaking loud and fast, his eyes bugging out and his nostrils flared, sending Louis into peals of laughter. He has this way of drawing Louis in, of making him laugh and relax – more tonight than he has in a long, long time – and forget, for a while, that they’re supposed to be writing a song, and there’s a lot of pressure, and they don’t have anything concrete yet.

Louis is a guarded person, with a practically non-existent inner circle, so Harry is something of a novelty: new, and unpacked, and unprecedented; a fresh and lovely face, capable of talking about himself without making it feel like a bore or a trap. Louis’s attention is piqued. The knot in his gut since the meeting with Taylor no longer feels like a noose.

They continue walking a while, talking about Harry’s dreams and aspirations, when Harry’s stomach growls and he announces they need sustenance. Louis leads them to an all-night café that he knows, about a block west of where they are – a quiet, shabby thinly populated little place, with an old man reading a newspaper and a trio of college students clustered at a table, yawning over stacks of books and wearing giant headphones on their ears. One sleepy waitress ushers them into a booth by a window overlooking the street, and asks if they want coffee. Louis takes her up on it, while Harry orders a green tea; Louis is about to make fun of him for it, when he tastes his drink and grimaces. It’s weak, and a bit lukewarm, like it’s been sitting around awhile.

“That good, huh?” Harry teases. His dimple is out in full force.

“The best.” Louis smiles sardonically. “Next question, though: pizza toppings. What do you usually get?”

“Are you asking because you’re hungry for pizza?”

“No, no, it’s more of a personality assessment. You can find out a lot about a person based on what they put on their pizza. Kind of like how Hogwarts houses tell you a lot about people. Which – by the way, what house are you in?”

“I’m a Hufflepuff, and proud of it.” Harry beams. “I’m not the cleverest in the room, or the bravest, or the most ambitious, but I am loyal and nice and our queen J.K. Rowling herself is in my house, so it’s good enough for me.”

“Well said, well said.” Louis grins.

“Let me guess, you’re a Gryffindor.”

“Right on. The brave and the reckless. Though, I do have some Slytherin in me too. Ambition and self-preservation and all that.”

Harry looks like he wants to press more on this point, but decides not to.

“Your other question was about pizza toppings.”

“Yes. Tell me what a typical Harry Styles pizza looks like.”

“I like tomato and pineapple,” he says decisively.

Louis blanches.

“ _Of course_ you’d like something as ridiculous and hipster as tomato and pineapple on your pizza. What a disgusting perversion. Honestly, what is wrong with you?”

Harry’s mouth falls open. “I am not a hipster!”

“Yes you are!” Louis gestures at Harry’s general figure, clad beneath the black coat in black jeans, a yellow shirt with the top two buttons left open, and black boots. “This is the most hipster outfit I’ve ever seen. All that’s missing is a damn fedora.”

Harry makes a squawk of protest, flapping his arms like a distressed bird. “There is nothing wrong with wearing fedoras! They’re only hats and they look good on people sometimes. And there is nothing wrong with tomatoes and pineapple on pizza, either, thank you very much.”

“The sauce is already made of tomatoes, so tomatoes are redundant,” Louis explains with a roll of his eyes. “And why would you want sweet squishy pineapple ruining the cheesy tomato goodness of your pizza? It’s just wrong.”

“Tomatoes on top taste different than the tomatoes in the sauce, so it isn’t redundant! And nice sweet pineapples are far better than eating the flesh of slaughtered animals with your cheesy tomato goodness.” Harry’s pouting, which shouldn’t be nearly as precious as it is.

“Are you a vegetarian, then?”

He pauses. “Well, no…” And, over Louis’s laughter – “But it’s really the principle of the thing!”

“Yeah. Okay.” Louis is still chortling, now at Harry’s deepening pout. “Remind me to never order a pizza with you ever.”

“We would do a half-and-half,” Harry decides, “with meat on your half and the clearly superior toppings on my half. And I’d make you try a bite from me, see if I couldn’t change your mind about pineapples.”

“You wouldn’t, but your optimism is nice.”

The sleepy waitress returns, asking if Louis wants more coffee (which he declines) and if they’re ready to order. Harry barely glances at the menu before declaring that he wants chocolate chip and blueberry pancakes. Louis, smirk barely contained, requests French toast. When she’s gone again, he props his chin on his hand, anchored by his elbow on the table; his grin is wide and warm.

“Where were we? Right: you’re a hipster Hufflepuff wannabe photographer with bad taste in pizza.”

“An admirably succinct summary.” Harry mirrors Louis’s pose, his smile affectionate. “What else do you want to know?”

Louis’s eyes sparkle.

\--

It is late at night, and Harry and Louis are supposed to be writing a song. A career-defining song that will decide the course of Louis’s professional fate. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows this, and alarm bells are going off, and he’s in a state of total panic.

But to look at him – at both of them – such a reality would be impossible to guess.

Their food has long been cleared away, and replaced with more weak coffee and a couple of muffins they’ve been picking at, and Harry is still talking – and Louis is still listening. Harry’s curls have been tied back in a tight bun that reveals the pale graceful slope of his neck, and Louis has his feet up on the seat beside Harry’s; his ankles have been migrating towards Harry’s hip for the past ten minutes, and have now finally made contact. Harry interrupts his story about taking Gemma to the hospital for the birth of her first child to look down at the tip of Louis’s dirty sneaker nudging his belt.

“If you want to put your feet there, I’d thank you to take your shoes off first.”

“If you insist.” Louis wriggles out of his Converse, lets them fall to the diner floor with a dull clatter. His feet are bare, and the warmth of Harry’s waist is attractive to his newly freed toes. But Harry’s eyes go wide with horror.

“You weren’t wearing _socks_?”

“Well, no. We made the decision to leave my apartment rather abruptly.” Louis wiggles his toes against Harry’s side.

It tickles, eliciting a giggle from Harry, but his appalled expression remains in place. “You should have worn different shoes then!”

“Why? My feet hate those thick cotton prisons. I never wear socks with my Converse if I can help it.”

“ _Louis._ Wearing trainers without socks makes your feet stink.”

“Really? Let’s test it out.” Louis is almost flat on his back on his seat, trying to thrust his foot in Harry’s face. Harry’s face shrivels up in disgust and laughter, swatting him away.

“No! No! Stop!”

“If you insist,” Louis repeats, laughing. He straightens up a little, lets his feet rest near Harry’s thigh.

“Why do you do that?” he asks, half jokingly and half quite seriously. “Trainers without socks? Don’t you have any love for your own feet?”

“Hey, hey, tonight is not about me answering personal questions, remember?”

“Trainers without socks is a personal question?”

“For the purposes of this conversation, yes.” Louis surprises even himself with the firmness of this statement.

“I suppose I understand,” says Harry, smile fading into thoughtfulness. “Must’ve been weird, being a celebrity and having to answer everyone else’s questions on command all the time.”

“That was probably the least weird part, honestly. The interview questions were pretty easy, because journalists had a stock list of them that they were allowed to ask, so I could rehearse the answers and have them down pat every time.”

“So what was the weirdest part of being famous?” Harry appears genuinely curious.

“Nice try, but I told you, tonight isn’t about me. You said I could ask you anything I wanted and you would answer honestly.”

“I did, and I stand by it.”

“Excellent. Then, in the spirit of the job that has brought us together – and that we still need to accomplish – I want to ask you about your previous creative writing experiences,” says Louis. “You’d mentioned before that you took a class. Which class? What did you write?”

Something tender flickers in Harry’s easy expression. “Um…”

Louis falters for the first time tonight.

“Have I finally found a line I’m not allowed to cross?”

Harry hums noncommittally, but bites down hard on his lip.

“It’s okay if I have, seriously. I’m still only a guy you met last week, and everyone is entitled to their secrets.” Louis would know.

Harry mulls this one over, brow furrowed. “It’s…not a _secret_ , per se. Which is kind of the problem. Plus, it’s sort of a long story, and it’s already late…” He glances at his watch, a thin canary-yellow band with a giant minimalist roman numeral clock – so, so hipster. Upside down, Louis sees the smaller hand approaching midnight.

In the back of his mind, he knows that their priority is the song, that he’s got the Adventureland gig tomorrow, that he should get a good night’s sleep or at least turn steer this conversation towards a productive writing session – but something a little reckless grips his stomach, as he takes in the sight of Harry squirming on his side of the booth, tucking his flyaway curls behind his ears and avoiding Louis’s eyes.

It’s been such a long time since Louis had a good reason to stay awake into the night’s small hours, shirking responsibility in favor of listening to pretty younger men spilling their life histories over bad diner coffee. It’s been such a long time since someone answered questions instead of asking them, interrogating him. And it’s _nice,_  sitting here with Harry, the low, slow rumble of his voice oddly soothing. It’s as easy, as safe, as sitting with Eleanor – even though Louis has known Eleanor for years, and Harry only a few days.

There’s just…something about him. Some raw chemistry, effortlessly bubbling and binding them together, Harry’s goofy charm and Louis’s wary sarcasm and their shared intensity, equal parts humorous and serious. It’s unexpected, and perhaps ill-timed, but Louis doesn’t want to leave or break the spell just yet. He’s sticking by his rule about no personal questions yet, but he does want whatever piece of himself Harry Styles is willing to part with tonight.

So Louis says, “Don’t worry about the time. I want to hear the story if you’re willing to share it. Do you have to work in the morning?”

Harry’s brooding expression clears at this: his eyes are shy, but his grin is sweet. “No. I don’t work Fridays.”

“All right then.” Louis slides his feet away from Harry’s leg, sits up straight in the booth. “I’m all ears.” He stuffs the last chunk of their shared muffins in his mouth, which makes Harry chuckle.

“You’re sure?”

“Of course I am.”

“I, uh…okay, so I’d just moved to New York, and I’d joined this writer’s group. I was working all hours to save up for the bakery, but I wanted to meet more people since I was in a new city, and this group met on my night off. I liked them, we had some good writers, and when we didn’t have stuff to workshop, we sat around discussing other books and movies and things. And there was this guy, Sebastian, and he kind of…took a shine to me. He was an English professor at NYU in the last few weeks of his leave to write his novel, and he came by because he was struggling with it, looking for inspiration, and he knew Joselyn, who was like the leader of the group. I met him during one of my early meetings – not my first, but like, the first time I submitted a couple of my poems for feedback. He said he thought they were clever, so he asked me round for coffee after the meeting.”

“You write poetry, then,” Louis clarifies.

“Yeah. Wish I could do prose, but I don’t have the attention span for it. So, he and I went out to coffee, and we kind of just…hit it off? He got excited about his book again, which at the time was about a guy trying to become a writer during World War II, and he showed me passages for my feedback, which felt pretty cool because he trusted me with things he didn’t even show Joselyn. When he went back to teaching, he told me to take his writing class – which was technically a proper grad class for credit, but he said I could hang out for free, do the workshopping with everyone else.”

“That’s lucky. NYU is quite expensive. One of my sisters went there for nursing school.” It was Lottie, who steadfastly refused Louis’s financial assistance and will probably be paying back student loans from beyond the grave.

“I know, it was very nice of him to let me join.” Harry’s eyes widen, as though Louis would distrust his gratefulness. “But, um…well, on one of our coffee dates, he kissed me. He was quite a bit older than me, and technically my teacher, but it didn’t seem to matter. We ended up spending a lot of time together, proper whirlwind affair.” He steals Louis’s cup of coffee, finishes it off and gestures for a refill. “It was a lot. And it was fun, and I was…well, a little in love with him. It was hard not to be. Everyone was a little in love with him. He was witty, and he knew something about everything, and he had a way of making people feel special just because he was looking at them. I felt lucky, at the time, that he’d noticed me, picked me. He wasn’t a romantic, no dates or flowers or anything, but he liked my poetry, kept saying he’d talk to his agent about getting me published. I shared more of my poems with him than I shared with anyone. He had this way of telling you how to make your writing better without ever making you feel like it wasn’t amazing to begin with.

“It went well – or as well as I could’ve asked for – for most of the time I was in his class. But then there was this one time when I was at his place with him, and his wife that was on sabbatical in Brazil returned home as an unexpected surprise.”

Louis cringes. “I’m sorry.”

“So was I.” Harry starts playing with the bands and bracelets on his wrist, smile wry and pained. “At that point, the lies unraveled pretty quickly. Not only was he married – without wearing his ring or mentioning it to me – he’d had sex with other students before. One even while he was with me. His wife was on the brink of divorce before I came along, and she finalized it when she found out. I dropped his class, and the university fired him soon after for sleeping with students.”

“Did you ever see him again?”

“Once, briefly, during writer’s group. He walked in, saw me, and walked back out without a word.”

“Damn.” Louis whistles low.

“But it didn’t end there.”

“No?”

Harry pauses a long time, staring at Louis’s mug of coffee and carefully weighing his words. He runs a hand through his hair, choosing his words with evident care.

Then—

“Have you heard of _The Incredibly True Story of Marcel French_?”

Louis briefly searches his memory banks. “Umm…it sounds familiar…”

“Released three years ago? National Book Award winner? Soon to become a movie?”

Louis snaps his fingers. “Yes! I remember now. I was actually at the ceremony celebrating the National Book Award that year.”

Harry appears gobsmacked. “You were?”

“Not by choice. I’m not much of a reader.” Louis snickers. “It was because of El. She was invited to the party, and I went as her plus one.”

Harry stares. “I have a lot of questions.”

“I’m sure you do.” Louis chuckles lightly. “But I’m more interested in what that book has to do with you.” He pauses – and before Harry can say anything, his face lights up with understanding, then incredulity.

“Wait. You mean to tell me that your Sebastian was – Sebastian _Hamilton_? The author of that book?”

Harry smiles a tight, humorless smile. “Yup. And I’m Marcel French.”

“He based his book on you?” When Harry nods, Louis asks, “Shouldn’t that be a compliment, especially since the critics went wild for it?”

“Have you read it?”

“No. I was at the party, and I recognize the name, but like I said, I’m not much of a reader.”

“Allow me to enlighten you, then. _The Incredibly True Story of Marcel French_ tells the tale of a handsome, smart, but flawed college professor who gets involved with an alluring young male student, a ‘siren straight out of mythology’ according to the back cover, with dark curly hair and the most mesmerizing green eyes. This siren of a student used the professor for his mind, body, and publishing connections, brought an end to his loving marriage, and destroyed his life.” Harry maintains an admirably straight face despite his sardonic, exaggerated tone, but he grimaces slightly at this. “Spoiler alert: in the end, they have one final tryst, and in the passionate throes of their sinful sex, commit double suicide together.”

Louis grimaces too. “Yikes.”

“Yeah.” The word sits heavily, somberly between them.

“Well…” Louis casts around for a silver lining. “I mean, that hardly sounds like an accurate portrait of the two of you. You’re both still alive, right. And your eyes aren’t _the most mesmerizing,_ per se.” Louis considers them – a brooding shade of olive in this light. “I’d say they’re more like…they’re warm. And pretty.”

Harry looks at him strangely. “Thank you?”

“It’s a good thing!” Louis’s cheeks turn a delicate pink. “ _Mesmerizing_ suggests, like, hypnotic, right – manipulative. Mesmerizing men to their ruin. But you’re not like that. You’re, um. Warm. And, uh. Pretty.” He ducks his head, takes a long gulp of his coffee.

But, to his relief, Harry laughs – a booming burst of unexpected sound, so loud that the few patrons at the diner look up vaguely to find the source.

“That’s very sweet of you, Louis.” Harry’s eyes are shining now. “Thank you for saying that.”

“You’re welcome.”

The coffee is still terrible, but Louis stays buried in it until the mug is empty. He looks up to find Harry grinning at him, dimple on full display.

“You know, I haven’t told anyone except Gemma this story before. It was my biggest secret. But you’ve gone and made me laugh.”

“I’m sorry,” says Louis. “I’m an utterly maladjusted human being with the shittiest defense mechanisms. I don’t mean to belittle how painful that must have been to you.”

“No, I know.” Harry’s smile fades a bit, but holds true. “It’s…better to laugh. I’ve cried enough.”

“Have you seen Sebastian since the book’s publication?”

Harry sighs heavily. “No, I haven’t. He didn’t even tell me that he changed the book around completely. He abandoned the manuscript he’d shown me and promised his agent, and wrote _Marcel French_ in the two months after NYU and his wife dumped him. It was published within six months, and it was an immediate hit when it was released. I saw it advertised in the window of a Barnes  & Noble. I bought the book and read it the same night, and I tried calling him, but he refused to speak to me. I even went to a signing for a glimpse of him, but he asked his team to escort me out. I tried to stay busy – threw myself into the bakery plans and a second job, spent as much time as I could with my niece and nephew. But I never wrote another word, because every time I did, I could only see myself as Sebastian saw Marcel – a goofy kid who wanted literary acclaim standing on the shoulders of a greater man, mistaking – how did he put it – ‘naivety for charm, and ignorance for innocence.’”

Harry chews on a fingernail, leaves it jagged and uneven. “Gem kept saying not to let him get to me, but…he did. I’ve read that book over and over, practically studied it, wondering if he was right about me all along.”

“But you _weren’t_ using him for his connections, were you?” Louis asks. “Because the way you tell it, it sounds like you were in love with him.”

“I never once said anything about wanting to publish.” An edge of angst colors Harry’s tone. “He was the one who kept saying he’d talk to his agent. He kept asking to see my poems, wanting to show them to people. I let him, but now I wonder what he said about them, if he was lying about everything and thought they were stupid, evidence of my immaturity.” He purses his lips. “I just…I go over it in my head, all the time we were together, and I can’t imagine that it would make him want to write something like that.”

“It’s fiction. It isn’t real.”

“But you know as well as I do, artist to artist, that fiction and real life are distinctly related.”

“He’s bitter,” Louis says. “He’s bitter that he got screwed, so he changed the story to make himself feel better, and also incidentally make a lot of money.”

“Gem said the same thing.” Harry’s voice is gentle, wistful. “But sometimes I feel like he knew me better than I knew myself. Marcel wasn’t a bad person, but he was too naïve, and he should’ve known better than to get involved with someone like the professor – like Sebastian. I mean, even a quick Google search would have told me that he was married, but I didn’t Google search him. I didn’t want to know. I let myself believe he could love me too.”

“You weren’t stupid, though.” Louis reaches across the table, lets the tips of his fingers brush against Harry’s knuckles. “You weren’t stupid for loving him, or not knowing the truth about him. You shouldn’t need to Google your lovers for crucial information. And he was the one cheating on his wife.”

“Sebastian was…the first serious relationship I had with a man,” Harry admits, anguish sending clouds over the green of his irises. “I wanted him to meet my mother. I thought he could be _it_ for me. Can you even imagine?”

“There’s no shame in that.” Louis’s hand rests on top of Harry’s. “The shame is on him for leading you on.”

“Easy enough for you to say.”

Louis hesitates, wondering if it’s his place to say what’s on his mind – but Harry’s smile is sad and a little empty again, and Louis’s recklessness returns with an iron grip over his insides. He removes his hand from Harry’s and says, “Listen, I barely know you, but I can tell you that this book, this guy…you are far too good and lovely to let them haunt you. I did actually meet Sebastian at that party, and he was an asshole. A serious, unmitigated asshole.”

“Really?” Harry’s brow furrows.

“Really. He was dismissive of the waiters, which is always the first sign of a terrible human being. You should never treat service staff as though they’re below you – and he hardly looked at them. And he snapped his fingers once to get one woman’s attention, because he wanted the shrimp thing on her tray. And when he shook hands with El and me, his grip was weak. He’s weak shit. And he’s got a weak chin to boot.”

“He does not,” Harry says automatically. “The portrait of him in the book—”

“As a former pop star intimately acquainted with the wonders of airbrushing and Photoshop, I can tell you that his chin got a lot of help after the fact. As did the rest of him.” And, when Harry still looks doubtful – “You can ask El if you don’t believe me. We gossiped about how awful he was the entire way home. It was how I cheered her up from the unpleasant encounter with her second ex-husband.”

“Second? El has been married? Twice?”

“Yup.” Louis snickers, but his eyes are sparkling. “This second one worked in publishing, and was at the party – which is why El asked me to go with her in the first place, for moral support. I’d kept up a constant stream of commentary about the pretentiousness of the party to entertain her, but the only thing that made her smile was bashing on Sebastian Hamilton.”

“You’re serious.” He’s almost afraid to be hopeful.

“I am. Look, he had that toothpaste ad smile, and his hair was remarkably thick for his age and for how much dye was in it, and he was capable of keeping up his end of banter, so I can see why you’d be taken in by him – but he was a douchebag. His opinion isn’t worth a damn. It’s certainly not worth you giving up on writing, when I know firsthand how clever you are, even on the spot.”

There is more light, more life, in Harry’s eyes now. “You really are sweet, Louis,” he says.

“I’m not.” He states this without fuss or feeling. “I am not in the business of stroking egos out of the goodness of my heart. Everything I’m telling you, I’m telling you because it’s the honest truth. You are a good person, and you deserve better than to walk around with a guy like Sebastian fucking Hamilton whispering to you in the back of your mind.”

Louis’s tone is firm, but Harry’s smile is like the crack of dawn, a brilliant and shining thing rising as the words sink in.

“You’re sweet,” Harry repeats, slyly playful.

“But do you believe me?”

He ponders this.

“I…do, on some level. But, well. He really hurt me. And it’s hard for me to write a word without seeing his face. It’s why I struggled, when you first asked me to write with you. It’s why I’m still struggling with the song. I want it to be good and meaningful, but I can’t work on a love song without seeing his face. Especially a love song about strength? Like. I don’t feel strong.”

Harry’s hands lay demure on his lap; his shoulders hunch in like he’s caving in on himself, his gaze averted down. But Louis leans in across the table, says, “It’s okay. I get it.”

“Do you?” Harry dares to make eye contact.

“Yeah.” Louis didn’t want to get into anything personal today, was perfectly happy to let Harry carry the night by himself – but with a story like this, an unexpected gander into one of Harry’s rawest wounds, Louis feels obligated to clear his throat, muster up the dregs of his courage, and confess, “I am useless with writing because Liam was the only one who knew how to put words to my feelings, and I still miss him more than I know how to deal with.”

Harry’s eyes go wide and sympathetic, his mouth falling open as though he’s about to say something – but he closes it, pauses before opening it again.

“Did he make you strong?”

He’s asked this question before, hoping for a real answer. Louis hadn’t been lying then, when he said Eleanor, but he wasn’t telling the whole truth either. She did make him strong – but Liam was his strength first. Once upon a time, Liam was the gravity holding his spine in place.

And so Louis says, voice small and pure with truth, “Yeah, he did.”

“So what happened?” Now Harry leans forward too, and Louis gets a whiff of his scent, a musky cologne both sharp and sweet. He tries to let this anchor him, as he plunges back into his dusty, unpleasant memories.

“We were supposed to be writing for an album, but the pressure of working four years nonstop were too much for me.” Louis exhales carefully, fights to keep his shaky voice diplomatic. “I tried – we all did – but the rest of the band couldn’t survive my erratic behavior, and we split up.”

“I’m so sorry,” Harry starts, but Louis shakes his head roughly.

“Don’t be. My point is just, I do get it. I know how it is to be…haunted. But I’ve found that it’s a waiting game, really, there’s no trick or design to it. You just…wait.”

“Until what?” Harry murmurs.

“Until it stops hurting.”

“Has it stopped hurting yet, for you?”

“Mostly.”

“So it still hurts sometimes.”

Louis wants to lie, wants to say that’s a manageable hurt, one that doesn’t debilitate him, but the words fail him. He has tried so hard to keep only the happiest parts of their time together on his walls and in his head, but Niall’s quivering lower lip, and Zayn’s beautiful face averted with pain, and Liam – Liam’s red anger, his unmistakable hurt – Liam afterward, polished and smiling, with a career to kill for – still haunt Louis like a marrow-deep sigh in the back of his gut. Where Liam flourished in the aftermath, Louis never finished a whole song by himself, only ever able to compose short phrases, snatches of melody because there was no sound, no phrase, no voice for Louis without Liam. Liam, one of the great loves of Louis’s life – a love he can’t unlearn, can’t even forget.

“It gets easier,” Louis says eventually. “You learn to live with it. I mean, I did do an album after One Direction.”

“Really?” Harry is inexplicably impressed.

“It was dreadful,” he clarifies. “I didn’t like most of what I put on it, and people made fun of me for ages. But…I did try. You know, to move on.” He pauses. “You can do the same. Write this song with me, and we’ll get Taylor to sing it, and that’ll show Sebastian Hamilton up.”

“He won the National Book Award, Louis.” Harry’s voice goes a little flat.

“And you might win a Grammy. You never know.”

“No,” he admits. “I suppose not.”

“We have until Wednesday. There’s time, but not a lot of it.”

“I know. And I do want to write this song with you, I want to move on…” Harry bites his lip, plays with the rubber band on his wrist. “It’s just. Hard.”

The notepad he’s been scribbling on is sitting beside him in the booth. Harry picks it up, plops it on the surface of the table, turns it to a fresh page. He poises his pen on the top line, chews on the cap as he stares at the yellow paper.

“I think getting started is the hardest part,” he muses.

Louis leans forward, rests his elbow on the table, his chin on his palm as he watches Harry start a fresh doodle along the margin. He doesn’t disagree.

\--

Harry and Louis linger in the diner for a while longer, sharing the notepad between themselves and doodling. They create quite an intricate pattern across the page, swirls and stars, abstract shapes and textures. Louis tends to prefer clean lines, symmetry; Harry likes to let his pen meander, obsess over details, no plan in sight. They don’t talk about anything in particular, mostly letting the silence sit, but it’s a companionable silence, easy and comfortable. The waitress no longer asks if they want a refill on their coffee; the other patrons in the diner leave, eventually; the place feels like it’s theirs alone. The night itself feels like a backdrop for this, for aimless drawing and conversation – for something that feels like a thawing. A beginning in earnest.

By the time Harry thinks to check his watch, it’s three in the morning.

“We should probably go, right?” he asks, blinking anxiously at Louis.

“Yeah. I actually have a gig tomorrow. Or, today.”

“What time?”

“Noon. El will want me ready by ten.”

“So you should be awake by nine.”

“Yes.”

Harry checks his watch again. “That’s in six hours.”

“I suppose so.” Louis tries to rally some urgency, but doodles another sleepy flower in the corner of the page.

“Where is the gig?”

“Adventureland.”

“I love Adventureland!” Harry beams. “Gem and I like to take the kids sometimes in the summers.”

“I’ve sung there a couple of times, and the crowd’s fine, if a little distracted by the rides and screaming children.” Louis examines his handiwork, decides to shade in the petals on his flower.

“You should probably get some sleep.”

“Yeah, probably.” He’s still coloring in the petals.

“You’re being really cavalier about this,” Harry observes.

“It’s only Adventureland.”

“But it’s a gig. People are going to be there to hear you sing.”

“Do you want to hear me sing again?” Only now does Louis look up from his flower, blue eyes a stormy grayish hue despite the fluorescent light.

“What?”

“Do you want to hear me sing again? Do you want to come with me to the gig?” His expression is indecipherable.

“Um, yeah.” Harry grins. “Yeah, I’d love to.”

Louis offers a small, relieved smile. “You can tell your sister too. She can bring her kids.”

“They have school tomorrow, but Gemma would definitely come to see you. She was so upset not to catch your whole set when you performed at the Hilton.” He laughs, pulls out his phone. “I’ll text her.”

“How old are her kids?”

“Riley is nine, and Matthew is seven.”

“Cute.”

“They are. Want to see?” Harry holds out his phone, the background of which is a picture of two laughing children, a girl with long red hair and a boy with a mass of dark curly hair.

“Matthew clearly followed your genetic destiny,” Louis remarks. “Those are some serious curls.”

“We are hair twins,” Harry explains. “He won’t let Gem touch it, only me.”

“They really are adorable.”

“I’m a bit biased, but I would have to agree with you.” Harry tucks his phone away with a fond smile.

“Let me know if Gemma can come, I’ll have El get her into the park for free.”

“She’ll _love_ that.” Harry grins, checks his watch again. “But I really should get going, I’m sorry. I don’t know how I’m going to catch a cab at this hour. Maybe an Uber? Let me see if I can get an Uber.”

“Don’t you have a car?” Louis asks. “You had one when you came to do the photoshoot.”

“Because hungover and guilt-ridden Nick let me borrow his,” Harry explains. “I don’t have a car of my own. Bit of a waste when you’re a single person living in the city. I use Gemma’s if there’s an emergency but – well, I cabbed it today.”

“That’s unfortunate,” Louis sighs. “But I definitely cannot let you take an Uber.”

“Why not? It’s convenient. And cheaper than a cab.”

“It’s dangerous.”

Harry raises an eyebrow. “How so?”

“Any random idiot and murderer can volunteer themselves as a driver. How do you know you won’t end up choked to death with your own entrails?”

“First of all, that is an incredibly disgusting and specific image. There are far easier ways to murder somebody. And second of all, any random idiot or murderer can also drive a cab; the risk factor isn’t that different. So you might as well go for the cheaper and more convenient option.”

“No,” Louis decides.

“Just like that. No counterargument, no evidence.” His expression is carefully neutral, but his eyes give him away.

“Exactly. No.” Louis’s nose is in the air, his face obstinate.

“So what do you propose I do? How should I get home?”

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to. I have a perfectly comfortable couch, and it’s walking distance from here.”

“You’d let me stay with you?” Now Harry is openly surprised. “But what if _you’re_ a murderer? Or worse, an idiot?”

“If I were a murderer, I’d have done you in long before I got your life story,” Louis points out. “As for the second charge…well, I’m the wrong person to make that call.”

Harry thinks this over, a grin playing on his lips; he fixes Louis with his green stare, his dimple mischievously charming.

“You drive a hard bargain. Alright, I accept. But only as long as it’s really okay with you.”

“It is. I’m offering, right?”

“You might be offering out of politeness,” Harry suggests.

“Actually, I’m offering out of pure selfishness. If you get ax-murdered on your way home, I won’t have a songwriting partner and my career will be over. Plus I’d have to haul arse to the police station and make a statement and it would be so much paperwork and bother. Might as well keep you safe and warm on my watch tonight.”

“Well, all right, then.” Harry’s grin grows wider. “Thank you, Louis.”

“You’re welcome.” Louis digs his wallet out of his pocket, lays down a few crumpled bills. “You ready to get out of here?”

“Yes.” Harry slides out of the booth, offers him a hand up.

Louis hesitates a beat, but accepts it.

\--

Louis is only in his bedroom for a minute, digging an extra blanket and pillow out of his closet for Harry to use – but by the time he comes outside to the living room, Harry is already sprawled like a dilapidated starfish across the couch he’d moved to the middle of the room earlier, limbs too long and spilling over the edges, his mouth open, snoring lightly. The sight leaves Louis unexpectedly tender, uncertain.

Harry should feel like a stranger. Louis can count on his fingers the number of conversations they’ve had. But he still has a way of treating this couch, this apartment – Louis himself – as an extension of his personal space. He’s told Louis his life story as though he had no trouble parting with his secrets. He’s _excited_ about coming to the gig tomorrow. He has ingratiated himself so quickly and so thoroughly into Louis’s life that he stares at Harry’s sleeping form now, and wonders how a series of headshots last week has brought them here.

It’s been a long, strange day. There is little concrete progress to show for it, besides their series of doodles – and yet…

Louis sighs, throws the blanket over Harry’s body, leaves the pillow beside the couch, and disappears into his bedroom before he can put any more thought into this.


	5. Chapter 5

 

Louis had set his first alarm for eight thirty, already dreading it as sleep gently dragged him under – but he never makes it to eight thirty. Instead, his phone starts blaring in his ear at seven thirty – a call from his mother.

He’s tempted to block the call, preserve the last precious hour of sleep available to him, but his mother lives across the ocean and he never knows when it might be an emergency. So, wearily, he scrambles for the phone and answers it with a mumbled, “Hello? Everything okay?”

“Yes of course, silly!” Immediately, Louis cringes at her shrill, sing-songy voice.

“It’s seven thirty,” he whispers, pained, into the phone.

“Oh, I’m sorry, love! I always forget the time difference for you.”

Louis buries his face into his pillow, fights not to scream. “What’s going on, Mum?” he asks the pillow in as even a tone as he can muster.

“I wanted to check in with you! You never called me back the other day, and we all left you messages.”

“I was busy.”

“Are you talking to Louis?” Distantly across the line, he hears Fizzy, the next-oldest Tomlinson sister after Lottie, arriving at her mother’s ear. “Put it on speaker!” And once it’s on, piercingly—“Hi, Loubear!”

“Morning, Fizz.” Louis tries not to sound too disgruntled, but his mood is not lost upon his family. “Shouldn’t you be in school today?”

“No, we have the day off. Is the song not going well, Louis? I was hoping it was, since you didn’t call us back.”

“We ought to conference Lottie in too,” his mother decides. “She’ll be up with the children, won’t she, Fizzy?”

“Yeah, she should. Let me fetch everyone else as well!”

“So it’s a full Tomlinson family phone call, then,” says Louis flatly. “Lovely.”

“Well, it’s the most efficient way to speak to you, since you so rarely call us,” his mother points out.

Louis groans. “It is far too early to be having this argument.”

His mother seemingly agrees-- but any further commentary is drowned out by the rest of Louis’s siblings joining the conversation, including Lottie, who is conferenced into a three-way call. The family’s first and most pressing question is the song for Taylor Swift: “We really shouldn’t have to hear about these things from Eleanor, Lou,” his mother chides him. As Louis attempts to fend off Daisy and Fizzy’s demands to play them some of the song, Doris chimes in wanting to Skype and show Louis her artwork, while Ernest, determined not to be upstaged by his many sisters, tries to rise above the chatter to tell Louis about the goal he made in football.

Louis is reminded, vividly, how long it has been since he visited home. At least two years, Phoebe notes when Ernest asks Louis to come play football with him-- “we did your birthday and Christmas, didn’t we?”

“I’m sorry, it’s just been busy here,” Louis tries to say, but he is at once drowned out in another wave of commentary from his other siblings.

The noise is grating to his own ears, and any response with a prayer of being heard will have to be a loud one-- but Louis realizes, belatedly, that there is one Harry Styles sleeping on his couch just beyond the threshold of his bedroom, and the commotion of a Tomlinson-Deakin family phone call might wake him. “Just a second, you lot,” he hisses as he slips out of bed, stuffs his feet into slippers, and pads quietly out of his rom and out onto the tiny balcony adjacent to the kitchen. Harry is still mercifully asleep, curled up like a comma instead of sprawled the way he was earlier; Louis opens the sliding door as quietly as he can, before saying to the clear New York morning, “All right, fine, now continue.”

“What’s going on? Why did you leave your room?” Lottie asks, instantly fascinated.

“You don’t have someone over, do you?” Phoebe releases an almighty gasp.

“Do you?” Daisy demands.

“Louis,  _ do _ you?” Lottie sounds astonished.

“Louis!” His mother is torn between delight and horror.

These are the moments when Louis is less grateful to have been born into a family full of women.

“It’s not like  _ that _ ,” Louis snaps. “There are children on this call, ladies! It’s only my lyricist. We were up late working, and he fell asleep on my couch. I’m out on the balcony because I didn’t want to wake him.”

“ _ He _ ?” Daisy’s tone is sly. “Is he cute?”

Louis is eternally grateful none of them can see him blush. “It’s not like that,” he repeats. “We’re just writing the song.”

“He’s probably cute,” Daisy concludes.

“How far are you on the song?” asks Lottie.

“Not far.” Louis runs a hand through his hair, paces the length of the balcony. “We, uh…we’ve got writer’s block.”

“So you’ve got – what, a verse? A chorus?” This is Lottie, determined to steer the conversation back on track.

“No. We have nothing.”

“But…isn’t the song supposed to be done by Wednesday?”

Louis is silent.

“I’m sure you’ll get it together,” says Fizzy, in what she clearly thinks is a winning, reassuring tone. 

“Yes, you’ve got your cute lyricist to help!” Daisy adds with an unambiguously wicked cackle.

“I’m sure you’ll be brilliant, Lou.” This is Lottie, apologetic and ever the big sister, her tone like honey.

“Thanks,” Louis grumbles.

“Have El to record the performance for us,” says Phoebe. “We can cheer you on belatedly!”

“Okay, I’ll tell her.” Louis hesitates. “But, uh, I do have to get going, now that you’ve given me this lovely wake-up call. I have that performance, and a few errands to run this morning besides—”

“No, don’t go!” Doris wails. “Everyone else is talking so loudly, so I haven’t talked to you properly yet—”

“Let’s Skype!” Ernest hollers over her. “Then we can see you too!”

“No, I can’t right now,” Louis cuts him off, immensely guilty all over again. “I do have to get going, and I’m sure you all have things you need to be doing right now, enjoying your day off from school—”

“But you’ll call us after your performance, won’t you, Louis?” his mother asks. “We do miss you so much, Boo Bear.”

Louis tries to stifle his groan at this oldest nickname, practically undead now with how many times Louis has tried to kill it and his family has resurrected it. “Miss you too, Mum. But I’m singing today, and I have that song to finish, right, and it isn’t the best time…”

“Just call us when you can, then, dear.” She sounds carefully neutral, but he can tell she’s disappointed.

Louis must be the worst son ever born.

“I’ll try. Take care, Mum. Girls. Ernest.”

“This is why you have to come back here,” Ernest grumbles. “I hate being the only boy.”

Louis grins, grateful he can’t see it. “I know, love. We’ll talk soon, all right?”

Everyone says their goodbyes, and Louis promises three more times to call whenever possible. Phoebe reminds him to have Eleanor record the performance one last time, his mother wishes him luck, Lottie hangs up, and finally, the call ends. Louis is alone again, slightly breathless, with a silent phone and an overstimulated heart.

His mother often complains that he doesn’t call enough, because they only speak every few weeks, and Skype even less often. But that’s because with five sisters and a brother, in addition to his mother and stepfather, all vying for his attention, talking to his family gives Louis a genuine headache. They overwhelm him. He’s had more independence than any of them, leaving home so young to join One Direction and staying in New York afterwards; he doesn’t fit into the rhythm of their lives, of his old life, as easily anymore. Their chaos and noise and overlapping screeches are loving, but they are too much for him. He has to take them in small doses.

Especially when he doesn’t have good news for them. Like now, with this song he hasn’t written yet. It’s one thing when their individual joy on his behalf snowballs into a deafening celebration of his achievements; it’s another entirely with their individual shock and disappointment snowball into overbearing sympathy. And he’s been leaning towards the latter, for the past few years. He doesn’t give them much to be proud of from across the ocean, so he prefers to stay as quiet as they will let him, hoping he brings better tidings in due course.

Somehow, those better tidings never do come around.

His phone is hot in his hand; he grips it tightly, stares out at the urban landscape beyond his balcony. His view isn’t much – just the street, and the windows of similar apartment buildings nearby – but it’s home.  He waits a beat, collects himself, refuses to examine the pang in his chest that he experiences every time his family calls. Sighing, he goes back inside his apartment, tucking his phone into the waistband of his pajamas. He walks into the living room, expecting to see Harry’s sleeping form still snoring peacefully on the sofa – but Harry is awake, stretching, mid-yawn. His curls are a tangled mess clumped on top of his head. When he sees Louis, his yawn turns into a smile.

“Good morning!” he chirps.

“Good morning to you too.” Louis tries not to stare at the shape of his bicep. “Did you sleep okay?”

“Yeah, I was out like a light.”

“I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No, not at all.” Harry gestures at the window, the sunlight streaming in. “The sun was just excited to see me.”

Louis snickers, but schools his expression into one of polite neutrality. “So, er – I do have that performance today. Adventureland.” He pauses. “Did you still – I mean, no obligation at all, but – did you still want to come to the show?” Maintaining eye contact is a nearly herculean task that turns Louis’s insides to glass, poised to shatter.

But Harry’s face is sleepy and sweet, his voice easy. “Yeah, I’d like to – if you’ll still have me. Gemma’s already said she’s excited to come.”

“Er, yeah – yeah, you can ride with me. I’m leaving around ten.”

“Great!”

“I, um – I have an extra toothbrush in the bathroom, in the cupboard under the sink. Feel free to use it, and whatever else you need. Spare towel is in the long cupboard.”

“Okay. Do you want to go first?”

“I was going to get coffee, actually,” Louis says. “Want one?”

“Yes, please.” Harry makes to pull his wallet out of his pocket, but Louis waves an impatient hand.

“No, it’s fine, I’ve got it. Shower. I’ll be back.”

“All right.” Harry’s smile is wide and sunny. “Thank you, Louis.”

“No problem.” Louis clears his throat, avoids Harry’s eye as he searches for his keys. “See you.”

Harry waves merrily, and Louis flees the apartment still in his plaid pajama pants and old One Direction t-shirt.

\--

There are several coffee shops within easy walking distance of Louis’s apartment, but he purposely chooses the Starbucks fifteen minutes away in order to give himself time to process the – well, this whole morning, really, brief though it has been. Waking up early to the Tomlinson-Deakin crew is a difficult hurdle even on a good day, and this is a performance day. As well as the day that Harry Styles slept over, and woke up with eyes as bright as a baby deer’s, and told Louis he would tag along to Adventureland without a trace of reluctance or irony.

Louis is not emotionally equipped for circumstances like these. For the expectations, more than anything else. His family, cute and blue-eyed and missing him, asking for a recording, as though that were something Louis actually wanted to give; Harry, cute and green-eyed, bringing his sister along to see the show, as though that were something worth seeing. Louis has tried so hard since his solo album to keep expectations as low as possible: small-ish crowds, the older the better, safe and friendly One Direction fans who won’t write long op-eds in music magazines about how poorly he sings. He doesn’t need the eyes on him, the anticipation of people who might want more than he can willingly give. He doesn’t need another opportunity to try, and come up short. Performance days are stressful enough without picturing Daisy hollering for their mother when she sees the video in her inbox, or Harry with his long arms in the air, headbanging and setting his curls awry to “Midnight Memories.”

In order to handle this, Louis must take this time, walk, obtain coffee, and hope that anxious denial of reality can get him through the afternoon. He has, after all, performed many hundreds of times, often in circumstances more dire than this.  _ It’s been fine before, and it’ll be fine again _ . The inertia of his career in music should be able to propel him weakly over this finish line too.

Louis is about five minutes away from Starbucks when his phone buzzes in his pocket; his caller ID flashes up Eleanor’s name, and an old picture of Louis scrunching up his face while Eleanor kissed his cheek. He finally smiles a real smile and answers the call.

“Hey, El.”

“Lou! You sound…conscious. How did that happen?”

“Mum and the girls called this morning. Thanks, by the way, for giving them a reason to worry. They keep asking me about this song and my mum’s annoyed that I wasn’t the one to tell her.” He chides her, but his voice has no heat to it.

“I’m sorry about that,” she says. “You weren’t calling me back, and this wouldn’t be your first spiral into doom and destruction, so I figured the more people checking in on you, the better.”

“I know.” Louis sighs. “You do take good care of me. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” A pause. “So…how  _ is  _ the song going?”

“So glad you asked.” Louis’s laugh is hollow. “Harry and I have been at it for a couple of sessions, but we haven’t got anything so far.”

“Really?” Eleanor sounds agonized. “Damn. We had such high hopes for Harry. You know, it isn’t too late for me to call Edna – that one who worked with Sara Bareilles? Do you want me to set something up with her?”

“No, no, it’s okay.” Louis idly rubs his thumb and index finger together, longing for his smoking days, standing around with a cigarette in his hand, puffs of smoke issuing from his lips and making such conversations easier to bear. “Harry’s probably coming to the show today, by the way.”

“Is he?” Eleanor’s tone is carefully neutral. “Do you want me to get him a pass?”

“Yeah. And for his sister too, Gemma. He said she wants to come.”

“All right…” The word hangs. “Lou, are you  _ sure _ you’re okay?”

“As okay as I can be. Why?”

“I dunno, it’s just – well, Harry’s coming to the show, and you seem determined to see it through with him, but you haven’t actually written anything with him yet.” Another pause. “What did you guys do for two days, if you weren’t writing?”

“We tried writing. Then last night, Harry suggested we take a break, so we went to that all-night diner near my building, and we talked awhile.”

“How long were you out?”

“Late,” Louis admits. “We got back to my place around three.”

“He slept over?”

Hearing the alarm in her voice, Louis hastily assures her, “We didn’t sleep together, I swear. It was just late, and I don’t trust Ubers, and cabs around here are impossible at three in the morning, and I’d invited him to the gig anyway so it made sense to let him crash on my couch. It was all very G-rated.”

“You know I don’t mean to pry,” says Eleanor. “I just. You know. He  _ is  _ rather pretty, so I wanted to make sure—”

“It really isn’t like that, El,” he insists, thinking of Daisy. “He’s only my lyricist, full stop.”

“Are you sure about that?” He can picture her raising her eyebrows, expression expectant. She’s had a long history of coaxing out his lies – but this isn’t one of them.

“ _ Yes _ .”

“Then what were you talking about with your lyricist until three in the morning if you don’t have any lyrics?”

“Just – you know, Stuff. And Things. The usual points of discussion.”

“If you say that’s what it is, I believe you, Lou,” Eleanor says. “All I want is for you to write the amazing song I know you are capable of writing, and knock the hand-crocheted socks off Taylor Swift’s pedicured feet. Beyond that, I don’t care what you talk about with Harry, or when you talk about it.”

“It felt like we were getting close to something last night,” Louis tells her, running a hand through his hair as he lingered outside the Starbucks. “And…and he’s invested in this song too. He wants to see it through.”

“I’m glad.” Eleanor is quiet for a minute, the only sound between them her long, steady breaths. “So…do you want to drive yourself, or do you want me to pick you up? You and Harry? He’s still there, right?”

“Yeah, yeah he is. Er – I’d like to be picked up, if you don’t mind. And I told Harry he could ride with me.” Louis has his own car, but he likes the ride with Eleanor, distracting himself before a performance with their banter. And she’s a better driver: she’s ruthless on the crowded New York streets, cuts minutes off their commute, and she’s a champion at parallel parking.

“Okay, sure. I’ll be there at ten.”

“Thanks.”

“See you soon, babe. Wear your corduroys with that blue sweater you look good in.”

He snickers. “Yeah, all right.”                                                                                                           


They hang up, and Louis steps into Starbucks to order. By the time he leaves, holding a stupid little carrier with two steaming grande cups so that he can play with his phone while he walks, he’s already feeling a bit better about everything. He isn’t sunshine yet, perhaps, but partly cloudy is an improvement on endless drizzle. He puts his headphones in, blasts some Adele to rouse his spirit, and heads home.

In his partly cloudy calm, however, he is woefully unprepared for what awaits him in his apartment.

Louis unlocks the front door, some rushed half-apology already on his lips about how he wasn’t sure if Harry liked a darker roast or if Louis’s favorite blonde roast was fine for him – but Harry is wandering around the living room, shirtless, and talking on the phone. He doesn’t hear Louis come in, his back to the door. The early morning sunlight from the windows bathes the edges and the curves of him in gold – and Harry’s got a nice back, Louis can’t help but notice, broad shoulders and a slim waist, the lines of his muscles shifting with the motion of his arms, and just a touch of softness rounding out the handles of his hips.

He’s well built, but in a slender, sinewy kind of way – a strength so casual it’s easy to underestimate. Louis is very nearly mesmerized, feeling like a creep standing stock still in the entrance of his own home as Harry chuckles to some lucky bastard, restlessly twisting his wet, freshly-washed curls around his finger.

Louis is still deciding whether or not to interrupt Harry’s conversation when Harry whirls around, suddenly, and sees him. But instead of disappointment, Harry’s whole face breaks into a bright smile.

“I’ll see you later, then, Gem,” he says into the phone before turning it off and tucking it into his pocket, still beaming in Louis’s direction. “Hi, Lou!”

Lou. Alright, so this means they have progressed to the nickname stage. Fair enough. “Morning, Curly,” he says after a beat. “I don’t know how you take your coffee, so—”

But as he takes a step towards the kitchen, Louis is stopped dead in his tracks a second time by the startling visual discovery that Harry’s chest sports not two, not even three, but  _ four  _ nipples. Two in the right place, and the other two placed haphazardly, almost at random on his pectorals. This on top of the giant butterfly adorning much of his stomach – which also disconcerts Louis, when he finally pays it some attention.

“What?” Harry looks down at himself in confusion. “Is something wrong?”

“Four nipples?” Louis asks weakly, retreating to the kitchen counter to set down the coffees.

“Oh. Right.” Harry laughs.  _ Laughs _ . “Yeah, sorry, I forget that’s weird for people. Had them forever and all.”

“Such an overachiever.” Louis shakes his head, tries not to look the extra nipples in the eye. “I’ve known people with three, but never four. Christ. And then this tattoo of yours…”

“You must be the first person I’ve ever met who commented on my nipples before my tattoo,” Harry says, still laughing delightedly.

“Tattoos don’t freak me out – all the lads had at least one, even I have a couple – but the nipples.  _ Those _ are new for me.”

“You have tattoos?” Harry sounds intrigued. “Can I see them?”

“They’re not in obviously visible places and I’m not the strip-tease type,” Louis says, gesturing sarcastically at Harry’s bare chest.

“Sorry about that,” Harry says, crossing the apartment back to the living room, where yesterday’s yellow shirt is strewn on the coffee table. “I don’t generally hang out shirtless in people’s apartments, I promise. My sister called while I was getting dressed and I got distracted.”

“It’s fine.”

“Great.” Harry peers at the two cups of coffee in the cardboard carrier. “So, which of these is mine?”

Louis takes his out, then hands Harry the other cup. “I realized I’d forgotten to ask how you take your coffee, so I brought it plain and figured you could dress it up here. Milk’s in the fridge, sugar in that cupboard.”

“Great, thank you.” Harry obediently goes off in search of sugar. “And, just in case you were wondering, I take my coffee with two teaspoons of sugar and a splash of milk.”

“A splash? How much is a splash of milk?”

“When I take the heavy milk jug and tip it without proper restraint into my cup, I take it back right away but still leave a sizeable amount in my coffee,” Harry explains, his left dimple deepening with his grin. “Hence: a splash.”

“Have you ever considered investing in powdered milk?” Louis asks.

“Nah, I don’t like it much.”

“Well then.” Louis takes the milk out of the fridge, hands it to Harry. “Splash away. I’m going to take a shower.”

He sets his coffee down and heads into the bathroom – which is still warm and damp from Harry’s shower, though Louis tries not to dwell on this. His things have been moved around some, and the extra toothbrush is sitting next to Louis’s in the cup by the sink, but Louis ignores it all, makes quick work of his shower, and pulls on the pants and sweater Eleanor had suggested without a second thought.

By the time he emerges from his room, running another hand through his carefully scruffy hair, Harry is sitting in the living room with his notepad and coffee, brow furrowed in concentration.

“Hey,” Louis says. There is space on the sofa to sit next to Harry, but he chooses not to, instead lingering awkwardly near the coffee table. “Writing?”

“Trying to.” Harry doesn’t look up, tapping his pen against the edge of the pad. “It’s like I’m on the edge of it, like there’s a feeling but I can’t quite get it into words…”

“That feeling is my closest and dearest friend,” Louis notes. “Spent most of my career in its company.”

Now Harry does look up. “Your extensive discography would suggest that that isn’t completely true.”

“Mmm. So, I was meaning to ask – what did your sister say, earlier?” Louis hastily changes the subject. “Is she coming today?”

“Oh, yeah, she’s excited about it.” Harry’s smile is indulgent. “She said she’s never been so glad her kids are old enough for school and that she’s her own boss. She’s given herself the afternoon off.”

“I’ve told El. She’ll have a pass ready for Gemma at the park entrance.”

“You’ve been so nice to both of us,” Harry says, setting the pen and notepad down on the table so that he can give Louis his full, earnest attention. “I mean it, Louis, thank you for everything.”

“It’s nothing.” He feels the blush heating his cheeks.

“No, it’s not. You’ve let me into your flat, your shows, your creative process, your – everything, really. You don’t know me; you didn’t have to do all that. And I know I’ve been kind of a shit about my end of the bargain, but I promise you that I’ll find a way to get it right. We’ll have a finished song by Wednesday, and it’ll be one we’re both excited about. I know I’ve given you plenty of reason to worry, but – don’t, okay? Don’t worry.”

Louis is too tightly wound not to be worried – in fact, these words just make his gut clench tighter with panic – but there is something to be said about the way Harry looks up at Louis through his long lashes, his eyes so fresh and green and bright, practically shimmering with sincerity. His curls smell faintly of Louis’s own shampoo; his pale skin and vivid red mouth are like strawberries and cream, too sweet to resist. For whatever it’s worth, Harry means every word. Louis’s mouth settles into a smile that almost reaches his eyes.

“At this point, Curly, you’re all I’ve got. Trust isn’t a choice anymore; we’re in this together.” He allows himself to perch his bum on the edge of the couch beside Harry, their thighs close but not touching. “What are you thinking of for the chorus now?”

Harry’s grin melts away at once. He bites his lip, brow furrowed again, and stares at the notepad, pen right back to tapping.

\--

They still haven’t made any progress by the time Eleanor arrives at ten to collect them – a fact that continues to deeply trouble Louis.

Technically, they still have today, as well as the weekend, Monday, and Tuesday, but it isn’t only lyrics they have to worry about: Louis would still have to fine-tune a melody, record the arrangement, and sing vocals, all by Tuesday night. And at this point, they have nothing, not even a couplet. That stress, along with the stress of knowing he has to play Adventureland today, puts Louis in a quiet, contemplative mood, staring out the passenger seat window while Eleanor drives.

Harry, on the other hand, perks up once he’s in the backseat of Eleanor’s car, all traces of his pen-tapping vanished. His smile is pure sunshine, and he effortlessly picks up on his banter with Eleanor from the day of the photoshoot. He is more of a showman than Louis has ever been, so very good at asking questions, and making Eleanor laugh, and charming her with his rambling stories. Knowing Nick Grimshaw is their mutual friend, he recounts some of their various (mis)adventures, which has her in stitches even as she’s driving.

As was the case last night, Harry is a veritable soup kitchen of personal anecdotes, ladling out generous portions of his life story to anyone with the patience to listen – and Louis just can’t understand why or how that is. Harry hardly knows either of them, has only been straddled with their company because Louis, in a fit of apparent madness, demanded he write lyrics for a song. But now he’s sitting comfortably in Eleanor’s car, reaching his long arm to the radio controls in the front, fiddling freely with the stations and singing along.

Harry has such a light, good-natured touch. He makes everything feel easy. And Louis – who has a lifetime of experience withholding as much as an existence in the public eye would let him – finds such people far more mysterious than the emotionally constipated types he relates to most closely.

Niall was like that too – everyone’s best friend in half a minute, cheerful as a puppy, equally glad to drunkenly buy a round for the whole bar, and to calmly offer his heartfelt advice on a serious problem. And Louis couldn’t quite figure him out either, found himself picking Niall’s brain more than the others, wondering what innate quality he possessed to be the way he was-- the best of them, truly, unfazed by stress or anxiety or tragedy. Zayn’s quiet introversion and Liam’s cautious seriousness were far easier to understand: they had their demons, their childhood insecurities and disappointments, and once Louis had worked his way down to them, their shyness and doubt made sense.

Louis was the brain, Liam the guts, Zayn the soul – but Niall was their heart. His sunshine perplexed Louis and his turbulent windstorms to his very core.

And now Harry is the one perplexing Louis, turning up the volume when he finds “Call Me Maybe” on the radio and dancing along without a trace of irony. Eleanor remembers she has a story about Carly Rae Jepsen, some afterparty in which she got into a bit of a spat with some actress, and Harry is a very willing, enthusiastic audience. He has such an expressive face, as he widens his eyes or gasps on cue; he’s as open and easily read as a picture book, and the more Louis studies his handsome profile, the white slope of his nose and the small flyaway curls on his hairline, the way his throat undulates as he speaks, the less sense Harry seems to make.

He is so… _ sweet _ . Louis almost lets the last of his coffee get cold watching Harry, this joyful and unexpected gate-crasher into Louis’s quiet life. He can’t even begin to fathom what’s going on in Harry’s head – what he’s thinking, why he’s here. Louis’s perpetually clenched gut feels oddly weightless, as Harry makes a lame pun that shouldn’t make any of them laugh but does.

By the time Eleanor fights through traffic to reach Adventureland, though, they are a little behind schedule, and Eleanor’s friendliness has faded into professional seriousness. She’s got on a black blazer, even though the April air smells like oncoming summer, and her only concession to the sunshine is throwing her hair up in a bun and pushing the sleeves of her jacket up to her elbows.

“You’re the first act up today,” she says as she, Louis and Harry make their way through the park and towards the stage, “so we’re on a schedule. Do you want to play the usual set, or change it up? I have all the tracks, so we can do whatever you want.”

Louis doesn’t even have to think about it. “Let’s play the usual.”

“What’s the usual?” Harry chimes in. He trails behind, somehow repeatedly bumping into families with strollers, apologizing with smiles and clasped hands as he goes. Those giraffe legs are apparently more trouble than they seem.

So Louis, lips quirked in a grin, explains: gigs like these generally call for six song sets with two songs as encore. So Louis has a standard set he seldom diverges from, honed by time and experience: he starts with a crowd pleaser, “Best Song Ever,” then “Ready to Run” and “Through the Dark.” He likes singing “No Control” when possible, but at a gig like Adventureland, with lots of children milling about, he swaps it out for “Girl Almighty.” Then he does “One Thing,” the only song from their first album he can still stomach singing all these years later. He steadfastly refuses to sing their breakout hit, “What Makes You Beautiful,” because he was forced to do it every show for four years and it’s now the soundtrack of his nightmares. He finishes out the set with “Happily,” another crowd pleaser, and “Fireproof” and “Midnight Memories” as the encore.

Obviously, these were all originally sung by a four-piece band, so Louis performs them with a backing karaoke track of guitar, drums, and vocal harmonies that Eleanor controls from backstage.

“Do you ever play with a live band?” Harry asks, catching up to Louis and promptly bumping his thigh into another stroller handle.

“You really ought to watch where you’re going,” Louis interjects, amused, as the disgruntled blonde owner of the stroller shoots Harry a dirty look.

“I’m trying! So, do you play with a live band sometimes, or is it always just you and El with the backing tracks?”

“Well, live bands require money, and our budget is a bit tight.”

“Understandable. But, you play guitar and piano – why don’t you ever accompany yourself?”

“Keyboards are difficult to transport places, plus then it’s hard to interact with the audience because I’m trapped behind it. With guitar, I—I don’t like to play. For people.” He clears his throat, glad there’s enough sun to hide the heat warming his cheeks. “I use my guitar to write, not to perform.”

And even this much is, frankly, momentous for Louis. Niall was the one to teach him guitar, the one who strummed idly during down time on tour, a constant soundtrack of white noise. After the band broke up, Louis couldn’t even look at his guitar – a birthday gift from Niall – for two full years.

Eleanor, too, had initially urged Louis to play guitar, show off his skills as an individual artist. But Louis had steadfastly, sometimes vehemently, refused until she learned to stop asking.

Harry takes all this in stride. “Fair enough. So do you consider yourself a singer first, or a writer first?”

“I don’t remember agreeing to an inquisition,” Louis retorts – and though it’s said with a smile and a bite of humor, his tone nonetheless feels final. Harry’s face falls just a little bit, but he nods, ducks his head as he dodges a small boy running past. He looks like he might want to say something else, but they reach the venue now, and Eleanor leads them backstage, where a couple of park employees are checking the speakers.

“You have about half an hour to get on stage,” Eleanor says, facing Louis. “Do you need water or anything?”

“No, no, I’m fine. Except – so, I was talking to the girls this morning, and Phoebe wanted you to film the set for them.” He sighs, self-consciously running a hand through his hair.

“Oh, that’s all right, I’ll do it,” Eleanor says.

“Or I could,” Harry volunteers. “Film it, I mean. I’ll be watching from the front anyway, so I can do it on my phone.” He looks to Louis, expression sunny. “It’s for your sisters, right?”

“Yeah,” Louis admits.

“That’s so great, that they can share in what you’re doing,” Harry says eagerly. “I’m guessing they don’t live around here?”

“No, my family lives in England. Except my sister Lottie, who lives in Brooklyn.”

“Oh, okay! So you do have at least some family around here. Does she come to a lot of your performances?”

“When she can.” Which, with her endless shifts at the hospital and the demands of her two children, is less often than Louis’s statement implies.

Harry’s phone blasts “Uptown Funk” again from inside his pocket. “And speaking of sisters – I think mine’s here,” he says, glancing at the screen. “And I’m sure you have to get ready and everything, so I’ll just go, and, um – I’ll see you when the show’s over?”

“Yeah.” Louis nods, and Harry beams.

“Good luck, Louis!”

“Thanks.”

And Harry’s off, the phone to his ear as he navigates away from the stage, presumably back to the front of the park to meet Gemma. This leaves Louis alone with Eleanor, who’s still staring at the spot where Harry had been standing, looking thoughtful.

“Do I want to know what you’re thinking?” he asks her, arching a brow.

“Whatever do you mean? I was just thinking about this audition you’re going to do on Monday.” She bats her eyelids, but when he smirks, she stands her ground. “No, really, you do have an audition on Monday that we need to discuss.”

“I do?”

“You do.” Eleanor looks highly pleased with herself. “And – god, if we were a sitcom, I couldn’t have written it better – you’re auditioning for  _ Teen Wolf _ .”

“ _ No _ .” Louis remembers that script they were laughing about before Eric Reynolds came over to write. “You’ve got to be joking.”

“I’m not!” Her eyes are little half-moons of glee. “You’re auditioning for a minor role on  _ Teen Wolf _ on Monday, at five.”

“Monday? But that’s…only a day before the song has to be finished,” Louis realizes.

“I know, and I know in an ideal world you wouldn’t take anything else on while you’re working on that – but it’s a good opportunity, Lou. It’ll be fun for you. And the benefits to getting the role outweigh any short-term risks.”

“But what if the song isn’t finished by then?” Louis’s heart rate is already rising.

“Then…it will be all the more important for you to nail that audition, won’t it?” She bites her lip. “Listen. It’s a popular show, it gets a lot of eyeballs, and if you do well, it’ll open more doors for you professionally. The casting director I was speaking to said that this role has potential to be a recurring one if the higher-ups like the outcome, so – I mean, all you really have to do is clear a couple of hours this weekend to get comfortable with the script.”

“On top of writing a new hit song for Taylor Swift.”

“Well…yes.”

“Fuck.” Louis runs an anxious hand through his hair, heart still galloping.

“That’s show business, babe.” Eleanor claps his shoulder sympathetically. “It’s tough, and weird, but it definitely beats sitting in an office all day, right?”

Louis, whose temperament perpetually vacillates between reckless energy and stubbornly inconsolable listlessness, who cherishes his Netflix binges and hates early mornings, nods in agreement.

“Cheers. But you could’ve waited til  _ after _ I finished performing to drop this bomb on me.”

“It isn’t a  _ bomb _ ,” Eleanor scoffs. “Honestly, I thought it would excite you. Pump you up, so to speak.”

He snorts. “How long have you known me, El?”

“Too long. Which is why I believe in you.” She takes his hand, gives it two squeezes. “Don’t worry, all right? About this, the audition, or the song. These things have a way of working themselves out.”

It’s the second time today someone has told him not to worry. Why do Harry and Eleanor think this will help? Louis is a pathological worrier. Harry may not know better, but Eleanor should. Sometimes, her cheery faith in him is more of a burden than a blessing. She gives his emotional stamina too much credit.

To get her off his back, more than anything, he lets her hug him tightly, wish him luck again before scampering off to double-check the speakers. She knows he likes his quiet time before a performance, and he’s properly alone now, standing by himself while the Adventureland crew bustles around him – but his nerves are raw and alert, too nervous. He tries to rally his thoughts, collect himself for another performance, but Eleanor’s face is in his head, and that stupid  _ Teen Wolf _ script, and the acidic fizz in his stomach when he thinks of that fucking song still to do—

It all feels like too much to ask of him. He can’t possibly deliver on all fronts, can he? Especially not now, with a to-do list in his head when he’s got a set to do.

God, the things he would do for a joint right about now. Or even a cigarette. These are the moments he can’t remember why he ever cut nicotine or marijuana out of his life.

In desperation, he tries his usual pre-show mantras –  _ it’s fine, this is your job, you’re a professional, everything will be fine fine fine  _ – but they feel like a farce when he’s in this kind of mood. He hums the opening notes to “Best Song Ever,” wills his nerves into a fragile state of peace. His nerves refuse to cooperate, and his voice in his head sounds like it’s half-mocking him. He has to take several deep breaths, in and out and in and out. He asks an Adventureland employee to fetch some water, which he sips slowly, savoring its bracing coldness.

_ It’s been fine before and it’ll be fine again _ , he tells himself, face in his hands.  _ This is the thing you are good at. Go be good at it _ .

So he takes one more deep breath, and works very hard not to overthink this.

\--

But Louis can tell, almost the second he gets on stage to sing, that this performance is not going to go well.

Though the success of any given performance depends upon a variety of factors, chief among them is the chemistry between the musician and the crowd – and that’s an intangible, inexplicable thing that cannot be controlled or prepared for. It happened all the time on tour with One Direction: the noisiest crowds broke the band’s doldrums, while the quieter crowds forced them to sail on their own (forced) enthusiasm. The audience members never know it unless they’re musicians themselves, but they affect the performers far more than the performers can affect them.

Especially now as a solo artist, this dynamic is important to Louis. Some crowds, like the Kappa Alpha Theta group, are easy. They are thrilled to see him no matter what he does, which lowers the pressure on him, allowing him to be more playful and spontaneous. But other crowds, like this one, are less welcoming. With the stage located at the nexus of a few popular rides, much of Louis’s audience in Adventureland is held captive by waiting lines; they eye him with curiosity or even vague hostility.

He is there to entertain them, but they don’t feel particularly compelled or obligated to give him their attention, because ultimately, he is a distraction from the chief entertainment of the day-- the roller coaster fifty feet away from him.

So Louis does what he can. He forces his face into a big, toothy smile, and claps his hands, and uses his best, brightest stage voice to greet the audience, ask them how they’re doing, get a bit of banter going about the rides. “So, how’s that Frisbee ride, eh? Any of you feeling dizzy? Do you hear them over there on the wooden coaster – sounds like they’re moments away from weeing themselves!”

He leaves room for them to call something out, but no one does. A group of teenage girls towards the back, blonde and thin and none of them older than fifteen, roll their eyes at him.

“Right then, okay – well, are you ready for ‘Ready to Run?’ Not that there’s anywhere in particular for you to run to, with wait times being what they are, but – anyway, here it is!” He bounces up and down on his heels, flashes a smile like he actually believes he’s funny, and tries hard not to look back at those girls and their suntans and their derision.

He did choose this set; he does like it, likes performing it. But during “Girl Almighty,” when he dares to glance to the back of the crowd where the teenage girls were, they have already wandered away to buy cotton candy. Louis nearly misses a key change mulling over this.

No, this is not good. The crowd isn’t interested, and his voice sounds thin and pitchy even to his own ears. He tries to get a few merry-looking mothers in sunglasses near the front to sing along, but one of their babies starts crying and she immediately tends to him and there’s that idea shot to hell. Louis tries getting the crowd to at least clap with him, but only a few half-hearted hands join him. It’s more than a little mortifying.

And, of course, Harry and Gemma are here. Gemma expects something grand out of him, took a day off from work to be here, and Harry is filming this for everyone at home. His whole family is going to see exactly how stiff and awkward he is, and how the crowd does not take to him, and what an enormous mistake it was to perform here, to perform at all. Louis can’t help but think, as he wraps up “Happily,” that if One Direction had done this show as a group, the crowd would have had a better time. Liam would have gotten everyone clapping; Niall would have made them laugh. Zayn’s face alone would have drawn in half the park, people fighting each other to get up front, get a better look at him.

Louis, who was never the funniest or the prettiest or the most talented, just isn’t enough on his own. And he knows it.

When he finishes the six-song set, he hastily thanks the crowd and scurries away backstage for a quick water break before the encore. Eleanor is there to greet him, brown eyes wide with concern and sympathy. Of course she knows he’s upset before he opens his mouth; she’s known him too damn long, she’s too good with his tells.

“Do I have to do the encore?” he asks, almost pleads.

“Contractually, yes, you do.” She squeezes his shoulder. “Just two more songs, all right? Two more songs and then you’re done.”

“I…I need a few minutes,” Louis admits. He feels strangely winded, like he’s run a great distance. “Can you…?”

“Of course.” He thanks his stars that the radio in her head is so attuned to his frequency, that she knows exactly what he means, what he needs. She squeezes his shoulder a second time, and steps out on stage to tell the audience that Louis would be back after a ten-minute break.

“If you go a little over the allotted time, I’ll hold them off,” she says when she returns. “It’s better to take more time before, and give a really great encore, than to rush into it and half-arse it.”

“This lot probably wouldn’t care either way,” Louis remarks flatly. “Maybe I  _ should  _ rush and half-arse it – get myself off the stage faster so they can all get on with their lives.”

“Oh, don’t be such a drama queen,” Eleanor says, though her hand is gently massaging his shoulder. “Do you want me to get you anything? Popcorn, Gatorade?”

“No, stay here. I need to be in the presence of someone who likes me. You like me, right, El?” He bats his eyelashes at her like he’s kidding, but she can hear the note of fragility beneath his drollness.

So, instead of teasing him, she throws an arm around his shoulders, brings him in.

“Yes, Lou, I like you,” she says. “I even love you.”

“I’m glad, because after a set like that, one does wonder—”

“Hey, Louis, there you are!”

Both Eleanor and Louis turn around to find the source of this third voice – and it’s Harry running up to them, backstage pass dangling from the Adventureland lanyard around his neck, curls bouncing on his shoulders.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to gatecrash on anything private,” he assures them, a little breathless as he comes to a halt. “I just – I wanted to make sure you were okay, Louis? El came out and said ‘ten-minute break,’ which I thought – I mean, it surprised me – and I wanted to know if you were—well, you are, you’re good, so. So that’s – good.” Harry’s cheeks, already flushed from the sun, go even pinker. “You’re good, right? I’m sorry, I can leave—”

“You’re fine, Harry, and so is Louis,” Eleanor cuts in. “He’s just concerned he’s having a less-than-stellar show, so he wanted a little break.”

Harry blinks in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you saw.” Louis refuses to meet his gaze.

“Saw what?”

“You don’t have to play dumb and spare my feelings, all right? I know what I sounded like. I know it was a rubbish set.” He says this all in a defensive rush, as though delivering the words more quickly would make them more palatable for him to say, for Harry to hear. His cheeks burn; his legs feel weightless. He wishes he had laser vision to cut the floor open and sink through a wormhole.

But Harry sounds puzzled. “What do you mean, a rubbish set? You weren’t rubbish. You were wonderful!”

“It isn’t nice to  _ lie _ , Curly,” Louis huffs to his sneakers.

“But I’m not! I was standing there the whole time, right in front with Gemma, and we were both having a great time!”

Louis hazards a glance at Harry’s knees, extra knobby-looking in those tight, tight jeans. “The crowd didn’t like it. Didn’t like me.”

“That’s not true. I had fun. Gemma had fun. The people around us were dancing; they were having fun too.”

“Yeah, well…” Louis scuffs the toe of his shoe on the floor.

“I really don’t know what you mean, Louis,” Harry insists. “It wasn’t a rubbish set. You were great. The songs were great. I mean, you’d just have to ask my sister – an otherwise put-together and professional woman, who becomes a basket case every time she lays eyes on you.”

Louis refuses to smile. “I mean, I was the one on stage, I would  _ know _ . That crowd wasn’t interested.”

“But I was the one filming, I was out in the audience, and – and why don’t you see for yourself?” Harry pulls his phone out of his pocket, quickly taps on the screen. “Here, have a look.”

Louis feels himself going very pink. “No, I don’t want to—”

“You do,” Harry says, still gentle but firm. “Look. See what we all saw. Eleanor, you too.”

Eleanor comes up behind Louis, digs her chin into the meat of his shoulder and peers obediently at the screen. Harry begins the video, practically shoving the phone in Louis’s face. A tiny version of Louis is saying something in a tinny voice. The real Louis’s breaths come a little shallow, his insides all twisted up; he wants to squirm away, find a nice black hole to hide in, but Harry is crowding in on him from the other side, their shoulders and temples touching as Harry’s lanky arm holds the phone steady for this three-headed knot standing in the middle of the backstage area. Louis is already cognizant of how much he has sweated from being outside, how his shirt is sticky and damp and Eleanor smells far better than he does – but the warmth of Harry’s body is oddly comforting, his scent an intoxicating, almost anchoring, balance of musk and sweetness.

Though he makes his living as a singer, Louis very rarely watches video of himself performing. Where the fans (and his family) treat performances as forever, things to keep and rewatch at will, Louis lives firmly in the present on that single count: when he’s done singing, he’s done singing. He can’t even remember the last time he’s watched himself – but Harry is here, and Tiny Louis, his smile visibly crinkly-eyed and friendly.

“Hello, Adventureland!” says Tiny Louis, the movement and noise of the audience a rush behind his voice. “How are we all doing here today? Enjoying the nice weather? Got to say, this must be the only silver lining of global warming – not getting rained on in April!”

The real Louis cringes a little, but Harry just brings the phone closer to Louis’s face.

“You look very excited there, don’t you?” Tiny Louis is addressing a small boy in the front wearing green swim trunks, clutching his mother with one hand and a styrofoam noodle with the other. “Did you go to the water park today, kiddo?”

Harry’s camera doesn’t catch the boy’s reaction, but Tiny Louis’s face splits open into a wide grin. “That sounds like fun! Mind if I come with you when my set’s over? Would that be okay?”

Louis remembers this moment: he’d felt like the world’s biggest idiot, because the boy just blinked up at him, and his mother seemed vaguely suspicious of him, her eyes narrowing, and the crowd wasn’t even that amused, their faces barely changed and no one laughed. But on the video, the people around the mother and son are smiling to themselves, exchanging amused glances with each other. Harry’s own snicker – low, gracious – is audible on the video. And – he’s astonished to admit this to himself, remembering his rapidly thumping heart – Tiny Louis looks fairly relaxed, smiling indulgently at the crowd with his crinkled eyes before introducing his first song.

And when the song starts, Louis cringes again in anticipation, expecting pitchiness, weakness – he tends to sound flat in his lower register – but it’s…not as bad as it had felt. His lower register is hardly fantastic, but it isn’t unlistenable. It isn’t even unpleasant. It’s simply  _ there _ , and easy enough on the ear, and then it passes quickly, because there’s the chorus, and he’s better at that, fits right into the harmonies on his backing track. The camera shifts to some of the people immediately beside Harry, and they’re engaged enough, tapping their feet and sometimes mumbling along with the chorus under their breaths.

Which – is a genuine surprise. Because he couldn’t hear them from the stage, and yet they still knew his lyrics. Harry has the proof. Louis feels his face soften.

“See?” Harry had been watching Louis instead of the video, his voice now a low rumble directly into the shell of Louis’s ear. “Do you see it? You’re better than you think. And you make people happy.”

“It’s true,” Eleanor chimes in from his left, so close he can smell the sticky strawberry of her lip gloss.

Harry lets the video play for a little while, lets Tiny Louis bounce around the stage a little while longer. The three watch intently, Eleanor’s chin digging deeper into Louis’s shoulder, Harry’s arm shifting up and down as he gets tired. Eleanor and Harry are like scaffolds propping Louis up in more ways than one; they hold him in place as he stares at himself, unsure how to feel. He gets so tangled up when he has to evaluate himself, unable to separate the performance from his backstage messiness. It’s the curse of the performer, knowing too much – like working in a restaurant and knowing exactly where the food comes from. The final product always tastes a bit different then.

But Louis survives. He does not, in fact, worry himself into a stress ulcer, watching his own song. When his breathing is as close to calm and even as can be expected in these circumstances, Harry turns off the phone and tucks it into his pocket, withdraws from Louis’s space. The sudden seizure of his warmth matters for a beat longer than it should. Harry’s eyes search Louis’s out.

“There. Feeling better?” His bright smile, dimple and all, silently dares Louis to be anything but.

“Yeah, okay,” Louis concedes, self-consciously ruffling his hair. Eleanor’s eyes send red embarrassment creeping up his neck.

“So what’s up next for the encore?” Harry asks.

“‘Fireproof’ and ‘Midnight Memories.’”

“Here’s an idea – why don’t you do something different today?”

Louis’s brows knit together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Like – why don’t you play ‘Stockholm Syndrome’ this time?” Harry suggests. “It’s one of Gemma’s favorites; she still plays it sometimes when she’s making rolls in the mornings. Dances around the kitchen and sings it into the rolling pin and everything. And what about ‘Drag Me Down?’ Something empowering to finish you out, what do you say?”

“Your impressive knowledge of our discography aside, I…haven’t really practiced those songs,” Louis says uncertainly.

“That’s okay! Surprise them. Surprise yourself.”

Harry’s beam is so big, so encouraging and self-delighted, that a modest mirroring grin plays on Louis’s lips.

“You’re clearly not a musician, if you think it’s a good idea for a singer to perform something unrehearsed,” he points out wryly.

“But they’re your songs. You know them. You helped  _ write  _ them. You must sing them in the shower sometimes. Right?” Harry’s smile, if anything, gets brighter.

“No?”

“I mean, hey, sing whatever you want, it’s your show – but in my humble layman’s opinion, I feel like maybe changing it up a little might make you feel better.”

Trying to look into Harry’s face now is like trying to look directly at the sun. The sheer goodwill emanating from him could blind Louis for life – and Eleanor is still beside him, watching, a furtive questioning look in her hazel eyes. Their combined attention is almost overwhelming. Louis ducks his head, messes up his hair to regain some semblance of his composure.

“Right then,” he says at last, clearing his throat. “If the lovely Gemma Bryant loves ‘Stockholm Syndrome’ that much, I suppose I’ll have to indulge her.”

“Yay!” Harry is properly beaming again, practically bouncing on the spot. “Okay, go do it. You’ll be brilliant. And I’ll be right up front, filming!”

“Ready, Lou?”

“Right.” He turns to Eleanor, his smile hesitant. “Then, er – ‘Stockholm Syndrome’ and ‘Drag Me Down,’ please?”

“Sure.” Eleanor is smiling too, as she goes to change the backing track. “Good luck!”

“Yes, good luck, Louis!” Harry looks like he might touch him – clap his shoulder, maybe – but his hand stays by his side, his grin stupidly adorable. Louis offers a half-wave, half-salute, sets his Gatorade down on an idle speaker, and steels himself to go back on stage.

“Hello, Adventureland, I’m so sorry to keep you waiting!” He steps forward, and the crowd – which has thinned out less than expected – gives a reasonable cheer. They seem friendlier this time – or maybe they just strike Louis that way because of Harry. Harry, and his video, and his remarkable patience. Harry, who must be clamoring back out to his spot in the front, standing close with his phone camera, but whose eye contact Louis cannot seek out without making himself look like the world’s biggest dork.

He shakes out his shoulders, lets himself relax back into performance mode, soak in Adventureland’s noise. It may not be a sold-out stadium halfway around the world, like One Direction used to command, but it’s what he has – and he lets it be enough. Tries, again, not to overthink this.

“Okay, all right, lovely to see you! Now, a friend of mine has requested a song, and I haven’t sung it for an audience in a while, so you’ll have to forgive me if I’m a bit rusty with it. Be nice, please! And sing along if you know the words. Do you think you can you do that?”

The crowd murmurs a lukewarm agreement. Louis, again, forces himself to avoid looking for Harry in the front.

“If you’re sure – here’s ‘Stockholm Syndrome!’”

\--

When Louis has successfully finished out his encore – and only a few minutes behind schedule – he returns backstage to where Eleanor is waiting for him with a hug. Buoyed by a performance he feels less hateful about than usual, he falls into it; she’s a little shorter than he is, and spindly, but she holds him snug and tight and he allows himself to sag into her arms.

“Well done, you,” she says into his ear.

Louis nuzzles into her neck, breathes her in for a moment. He lets that be his response.

When they break apart, Louis spots Harry bounding backstage with Gemma in tow, both of them wearing twin smiles that seem to harness the naked power of the sun.

“Louis, you were  _ so good _ !” Gemma exclaims. “And you sang ‘Stockholm Syndrome!’ Did Harry tell you how much I love that one?”

“He did, yeah,” Louis says with a chuckle. It’s easier to be cheerful now, with Gemma’s excitement, and the performance and its jitters behind him. “Come here, give us a hug.”

She doesn’t need any more prompting; she quickly pulls Louis in for a hug almost tighter than Eleanor’s. She smells like salt and sunscreen and whichever product is holding her straight blonde hair in place. But Louis is watching Harry, even over Gemma’s head: the affection on his face is unbelievably fond.

“Thanks for coming,” Louis says when Gemma let's go. “I’m glad you enjoyed the show.”

“Thank  _ you _ for having me!” she exclaims. “I am eternally grateful that Nick slept in that time, and Hazza and I got to meet you.”

“You too. I’ll have to get El to introduce me to Nick some time for real so that I can thank him.”

Gemma giggles, and Harry steps forward, puts his arm around her shoulders. “Great show, Louis,” he says, his deep voice rich with warmth. “Told you you’d be brilliant.”

Louis’s normal impulse would be to fight the compliment – trivialize it, call it a lie, laugh it off – but something about the way Harry looks at him, green eyes so open and glowing, dissolves the words in Louis’s throat before they reach his tongue. Instead, he settles for a genuine smile, crinkly-eyed and true – which Harry returns.

Louis waits a beat, considers saying something, but Gemma interjects: “So what are your plans for today, the both of you? Working on the song? Or can you spare an hour, maybe get lunch or something?”

“Oh, um – no, I’m sorry, we really should work on the song the rest of the afternoon,” Louis says. “We’ll probably order something in.”

“Sorry, Gem, we’ve got a lot to do,” Harry says, “and on Sunday I have to come in and make the Johnson cake—”

“Right, of course. And I’d do that cake for you, if I could, but you are so much better with the triple tier construction, I’m still getting mine right.”

“It’s fine, it’s only one cake. But that means we have to get a good foundation for the song today, so that we’re ready to finish it in time.”

“It’ll be amazing,” Gemma says firmly, nodding at the two of them. “Hazza is such a beautiful writer – which I’m sure you know, Louis – and you’re – well, you’re  _ you _ . So between the two of you, I mean. You’ll have this in the bag.”

She says it so easily, with such conviction, like it’s already a done deal. The same way Louis’s sisters said it, his mother, Eleanor – even Taylor Swift herself.  _ It’ll be great. No, it’ll be amazing. Don’t worry. Can’t wait to hear it! _ And somehow that kind of talk, more than anything other stressor, sends a fresh flood of dread and ice into Louis’s veins, redoubling his own private conviction that he and Harry are in deep trouble.

The more confidence people have in him, the more it tends to ignite some internal panic state of stage fright – like all this goodwill is going to choke him in expectations, and kill his creativity. It takes him considerable effort to muster a polite half-smile for Gemma.

“Thanks, thank you so much,” he says, mechanical even to his own ears.

But Gemma, of course, doesn’t catch it, still buzzed on the energy of the show and the park. “Not at all! But, of course, you have a hit song to write, so don’t let me get in your way.” She gives Harry a quick hug, and after a moment’s hesitation, Louis too. “Not that you need it, but good luck!”

Harry offers to walk her out of the park, but Gemma shakes her head and heads out alone, instantly swallowed up by the busy Saturday rush. This leaves Harry, Louis and Eleanor backstage, where the Adventureland staff is preparing for the next act.

“Guess we better head out too,” Eleanor notes, perching her oversized aviators on the bridge of her nose. “You sure you guys don’t want to grab lunch before I drop you home?”

“No,” Louis says again, decisively. “We need to get this thing done.”

“We’ll be fine, thanks,” Harry adds.

“If you say so.” A ghost of a smirk lights Eleanor’s face. “Then to Lou’s place we go.”


	6. Chapter 6

 

“So, boats are _definitely_ out. Banished. Do not pass Go, do not collect $200.” Harry tries to say this with a straight face, but his dimple and the mischievous twinkle in his eye give him away.

“It’s just easy!” Louis refuses to back down, no matter how mulish he sounds. “If you’re going to go that route, you have to be compelling. Ships and anchors are easy pickings.”

Harry nods in faux-acquiescence, helping himself to the last of the vegetable lo mein. “You know,” he says conversationally, through a mouthful of noodles, “you are really bossy for someone who doesn’t consider himself a lyricist.”

Louis rolls his eyes, snatches the last of the kung pao chicken next to him on the floor. They’ve been at this for nearly two hours now – eating steadily cooling Chinese food, debating lyrics. Driving each other a little bit mad. Louis may not have written viable commercial music in eight years, but he certainly has an ear for a melody, the rhythm of a line – the cliché-ness of a concept. He knows what good music is supposed to sound like.

Harry, for his part, is sprawled comfortably on the couch, feet up on the table, mouth quirked in a half-grin, but Louis senses a certain flatness to his tone, a tightness to the way he grips his pen – defensive, almost.

“Despite your irrational hatred for nautical imagery, I still think it’s a viable idea,” Harry announces. “So I’m going to keep it on the notepad.”

“Okay.” Louis shrugs, swallows a petulant mouthful of chicken.

“So, when it comes to the main story of the song…I mean, I still like the idea of a forbidden sort of relationship,” Harry continues. “When I think of Taylor and Calvin, I think of like, all these cameras and all these nosy people, and how that kind of scrutiny almost makes the other person feel…illicit, in a way. Like you have to go through all these layers to get to them, because you can’t have each other as you are, you have to hide away in order to get to the meaningful parts of a relationship. You have to…I don’t know, protect each other, from misunderstandings and miscommunication.”

He pauses, seeming to process his own words. Then he asks, “Do you believe in soulmates?”

Louis curls his knees in tighter to his chest. “Why, do you?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Harry says. “I think if you’re meant to be together, the universe will conspire in your favor and bring you back to each other.”

“That’s a good line, we should use it somewhere,” Louis says. “Write it on the pad.”

“What line?”

“How could you have forgotten it already?” Louis scoffs. “‘The universe will conspire in your favor.’ It’s a nice phrase.”

“Thanks,” Harry mumbles, but he doesn’t sound ecstatic as he scribbles it into the margin of the notepad.

“Great. So, there’s a line. What rhymes with ‘favor’?”

“ _The universe will conspire in your favor, orchestrate a sweet moment to savor_?” Harry wrinkles his nose. “No, no, that’s not right.”

“Favor and savor is a good rhyme, though.”

“It’s just – it’s not enough,” Harry says. “Even if you do get the circumstances, even if you get the opportunity to create something real…how do you know? How do you follow through?”

“You…just do, I suppose.” Louis returns to the garlic chicken that Harry abandoned on the other side of the table. “You announce, ‘Oi, I fancy the pants off you!’ And promptly fancy the pants right off them.”

Harry smirks. “We should deliver you to the next op-ed writer who laments the death of romance.”

“But it _is_ romantic to blurt shit out in the middle of nowhere,” Louis argues. “It’s honest. It’s not pretending to be something it isn’t.”

“Have you ever done that?” The question spills a little too quickly from Harry’s lips. “Blurted shit out in the middle of nowhere to someone you loved?”

“I—” Louis’s jaw closes, tightens. “I didn’t, but it’s really not the point.”

“I think it is, though.” Harry sets the notepad down on the couch beside him, looks Louis directly in the eyes. “I don’t think we’re inspired here. These lyrics aren’t working because they aren’t coming from an honest place.”

Louis immediately finds himself shrinking, even as his arms fly out defensively. “What, and interrogating me on my love life is going to inspire you?”

“It’s hardly an interrogation when all I’m doing is asking you a simple question.”

“You said I didn’t have to answer if I didn’t want to.”

“That night, yeah. But you can’t expect me to write a song without _getting_ something from you.” Harry runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “You don’t like anything I come up with, or anything you come up with, and you can’t give me any suggestions.”

“You were so good that day, rhyming everything on the spot,” Louis insists. “Remember ‘last good-bye’ and ‘pumpkin pie’? You had it. It was working. And it’ll work again; I’ll know the right line when I hear it.”

Harry’s eyes narrow. “I am not here to amuse you with my clever rhymes, Louis. I’m not the fabric guy pulling out this swatch and this swatch and letting you point to the prettiest one. I’m here to write lyrics to a song. I’m here to tell a story with you. And I can’t tell a story if I’m not genuinely inspired, if I’m not feeling something.”

Something breaks in Louis’s chest like sapling underfoot.

“So tell me about your last relationship.” The words come with unexpected heat. “Let’s be inspired by that.”

“How could _you_ forget it already,” Harry scoffs, cheeks pink. “I _did_ tell you about my last relationship. And that’s not even to get into how this is not an even exchange.” He pauses a moment, but says, “Look, I get that you don’t love opening up about yourself. It’s understandable. But you can’t write a good song, an honest and worthwhile love song, if you aren’t tapping into your lived experience – your memories, your emotions. And a good songwriting partner is someone who can help you access that stuff and use it productively. That’s probably why it worked so well with you and Liam: you were best friends, you knew each other, you talked about things that mattered.”

For a moment, Louis doesn’t breathe. “I’ll thank you to leave Liam out of this.”

“Why?”

“I already told you why.” _And I’m regretting it deeply_.

“Louis—”

“You’ve never written a song before, okay?” Louis’s breaths are short and sharp. “You’ve never been anyone’s songwriting partner. You don’t actually know Liam, either, or me. You aren’t the authority on this process. So I hardly appreciate this lecture on warm fuzzies from _you_.”

The resulting silence is loaded, and long. The way Harry’s eyes widen a little draw some guilt out of Louis, but not enough to take anything back. It’s the first time they’ve ever been brusque with each other this way, in two days of attempted writing. Harry’s hands are frozen on the fork in his kung pao chicken. Louis has to avert his eyes, stare down at his own knees as his heart beats too fast. It takes Harry several seemingly endless seconds to speak.

“I may not have written a song before,” he says, tone low and deliberate, “but I know how to write a love story, and I know what it’s like to feel betrayed by someone you trusted with yourself and your work. I know that good storytelling requires vulnerability. And I think you know all of that, too, which is why I’m not sure why you’re still fighting me on this.”

The pressure builds up behind Louis’s eyes like iron and steam, and yet the bottom of his stomach drops out like he’s nothing, like he’s made of air. He gets up so quickly, so abruptly and instinctively, that he surprises himself.

“I’m going to get some coffee,” he hears his mouth say. “Do you want anything?”

Harry’s eyes are so unbearably disappointed. “No.”

“Okay. I’ll be back.”

Louis stuffs his feet into his Converse and leaves the room without another word.

\--

The night is colder than he had anticipated, making Louis wish he’d thought to grab a sweatshirt; his t-shirt is not enough, and his arms are already covered in goosebumps. But he keeps walking anyway, to that Starbucks fifteen minutes away, as though he can freeze and then exercise the feelings out of himself. He keeps his eyes on his shoes and the sidewalk, on the wisps of condensation from his lips. He keeps his mind determinedly blank.

He’s damn near frozen by the time he reaches Starbucks, but it’s warm and packed with people, smelling like coffee and ringing with conversation. The barista smiles at Louis as she takes his coffee order. He accepts his drink and sinks down on the nearest available seat, letting his fingers thaw on the hot cup. He gets back in line for a pastry – a sugar cookie shaped like a flower. He bites into the petal, sips his coffee, lets the sweetness and bitterness mix on his tongue and blister down his throat.

He is nearly done with the cookie when his phone rings inside his pocket.

For one wild moment, Louis thinks it’s Harry – but it’s an unknown number. He takes another bite of his cookie and indulges his curiosity.

“Hello?”

“Louis! Hi!” It’s Taylor Swift, that patron saint of strawberry lemonade and professional surprises. “Is this an okay time to talk?”

“Sure.” Louis takes an extra-large sip of scalding coffee. “What can I do for you?”

“I got your number from Eleanor. I wanted to speak to you about the song.”

Louis’s tired heart skips a beat. “What about it?”

“How’s it coming?”

“It’s…coming.”

“That’s good to hear.” She hesitates. “Listen, I am so sorry to do this to you, but I have a situation on my end. I had set a meeting with a couple of producers for Thursday morning in LA to finalize the track list for my album, but they called me today to change it to Wednesday morning instead. That’s important, because the reason I’d asked you to have the song ready on Wednesday morning was so I could hear it and decide what to do with it in time for the meeting. But with that moved up to Wednesday, I am going to have to move up our timeline as well – to Tuesday morning, nine AM, at my apartment.” She hesitates again, lets the news sink in. “Will you be able to have the song ready by then?”

Louis is glad that his coffee is sitting safely on the table rather than in his hand, or he would have dropped it on the floor and created a colossal mess.

“You want it…Tuesday,” he repeats.

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Again, it’s as though someone else is speaking through his mouth. “All right, I’ll see you on Tuesday, then.”

“Thank you for understanding, Louis, I appreciate it,” Taylor says. “Let me know on this number if you need anything.”

_Besides another day, or perhaps a lifetime, to finish?_

“Okay.” He doesn’t know why he keeps saying that, and so calmly, when calm is the last thing he feels. “If that’s all?”

“Yes, that’s all.” He can hear her smiling through the phone. “Thanks again. Bye, Louis.”

“Bye.”

He hangs up the phone and stares at his coffee cup.

When he takes another sip – to occupy his quivering hands, more than anything – all he tastes is bitterness.

\--

Louis can’t bear to sit in the coffee shop for longer than five minutes after that call. He can’t bear to drink the coffee, either – not when his stomach is in knots, when his mind is simultaneously numb and buzzing without the destabilizing effect of caffeine in his veins. He leaves Starbucks with his half-drunk cup still warm on the table. The cold barely makes an impression on him during the walk home.

He unlocks his front door and steps inside his apartment with a blank expression on his face. He is shivering, his hair is windswept, and his eyes are a little manic, but the depth of his internal crisis has robbed him of both words and urgency. He walks inside and takes off his shoes as though this is something he does everyday. Harry, slouched on the couch with his feet on the coffee table, scrolling through something on his phone, looks up in surprise, and then alarm.

“Louis?” He drops the phone on the couch. “Louis, are you alright?”

Louis nods once on autopilot, but reconsiders, and shakes his head instead.

“Here, come here.” Harry stands, takes the blanket draped on the couch, and tucks it around Louis’s shoulders where he stands, still in the entrance of the apartment. “You’re practically frozen solid. Do you want some tea? You’re looking awfully pale.”

Louis shakes his head a second time.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks. “What’s going on?”

Louis takes a moment, searches for his voice.

“The lyrics need to be finished tonight.” Again, that unnatural calm.

“What? I don’t—”

“Taylor. She called. She wants the song a day earlier, on Tuesday. So we need to get this thing done.”

“Tuesday? So, wait—”

“She’s flying to LA to meet with her producer, so she wants the song on Tuesday morning. We need lyrics down so I can work out the arrangement.” Louis shrugs off the blanket, lets it flutter to the floor as he moves towards the couch. “If you can’t help me, I can call somebody else, get a Monday meeting or something and hammer it out. But if you want to stay on the project, you have to—”

Louis makes to sit down, but accidentally sits on Harry’s phone, still lying on the couch. He picks it up, and is about to hand it back to Harry, when an image on the screen – lit up by his bum waking the phone from sleep – catches his attention. Because – as he snatches the phone back from Harry’s reaching hand – it’s _his_ image on Harry’s phone, some old photograph from an awards show catching the profile of his megawatt popstar smile. Harry makes some guilty sound trying to snatch the phone, but Louis, nerves already frayed, grips the thing tighter.

It’s his Wikipedia page. Harry was reading his personal Wikipedia page – likely the lengthy “Personal Life” section, which the phone currently displays with full brightness, black-and-white pixels blandly proclaiming the various names he has been attached to over the years, this model and that actress and—

And it’s like some sheet of fragile ice has shattered, released a white-hot inferno in the pit of Louis’s stomach. He throws the phone back to the couch, is on his feet before he realizes he wanted to stand, and Harry’s discomfited face looms too close and too far in his field of vision, stepping forward then backward, tucking his curls behind his ears.

“You were reading _up_ on me?” Louis asks. His throat aches with the weight of his heart, trying to crawl up and out of him. “ _Really_?”

“It’s all public knowledge,” Harry says quickly. To his credit, he holds Louis’s gaze.

“But you said that you wouldn’t.” Louis bites down on his lip, hard. “You told me at that diner that I had the right to tell my story the way I wanted. Didn’t you tell me that?”

“I did—” Harry’s face is as red as Louis’s temper. “And you do, Lou, but—”

“But what?”

“But you left here without a jacket to get coffee, and you come back in here ordering edicts like I’m supposed to wind up a key and spit out a song because Taylor Swift blindsided you, and—” Harry’s arms flail helplessly at his sides. “You never give me anything to go off of. I’m doing something I’ve never done before for two people I’ve only read about in magazines, just because you asked me to, but every time I ask you a question it’s like I’ve committed some terrible crime. And I don’t know how to write like this.”

“So you _Wiki_ me? Really?”

Louis refuses to back down, even as Harry deflates, runs an anxious hand through his hair. His shoulders curl inward, somehow shrinking his tall frame, but Louis’s eyes are firm and wild, the color of a blustery sea.

“All I wanted was a brief overview of public knowledge,” Harry says. “Just so I had an _idea_ of who I’m working with.”

“Well, I hope you found what you were looking for.”

“I didn’t!” Harry sighs, purses his lips unhappily. “What I’m _looking for_ is what makes you tick, so we can write you this song and get your career going again. And only you can give me that. Wikipedia was just…me being desperate. You were supposed to be gone longer.”

“I know. Taylor called while I was at Starbucks.”

“Right.” Harry’s fingers tangle restlessly in his hair.

Louis sinks down on the couch next to Harry’s phone, rests his elbows on his knees and buries his face in his hands. He breathes into the sweaty saltiness of his palms for several seconds, tries to still the galloping in his chest. He feels Harry move the phone, sit down beside him, their knees almost touching.

“We really do need these lyrics today, Harry,” Louis says eventually. “I was serious when I said I could ask someone else. El was in touch with someone with a decent resume before I met you.”

“You can ask someone else if you want,” Harry says, sounding defeated. “But I feel like I should warn you: I think you’re going to have this same problem with anyone you work with, because good co-writing has to come from both people, from an honest place, in order to mean anything. You won’t like what anyone else comes up with if you can’t feel it too – and you have to actually feel it in order to know what you’re looking for. And you are so reluctant to talk about yourself that you won’t even let me read your Wikipedia page, which anyone with Internet access could see. That kind of secrecy, it—it blocks you. It makes it impossible to write.”

“Being in entertainment, everyone reads my Wikipedia page before they ever meet me.” Louis can’t keep the resentment out of his voice. “I thought maybe one time, I could just…I don’t know, be a mystery, like every other fucking person.”

“I read that whole page, and you are as big a mystery to me afterwards as you were before,” Harry remarks.

“What does it even say?” Louis asks, in spite of himself. “I haven’t read it myself.”

“It talks about how One Direction was formed, how many records you guys broke. Some stuff about your musical influences, how many siblings you have, your charity work as part of One Direction, a line about your solo album.” Harry chews his lip, checks back on his phone. “It mentions that you had a bit of a spiral with the drugs and the partying, and you and Liam had a big falling out over that. And you came out in 2005, but you were engaged to Eleanor for a while.”

“Eleanor?” He frowns for a moment, then smirks when he remembers. “Right. I forgot about that.”

“You forgot you were engaged to Eleanor?” Harry’s low voice shoots up an octave in indignant shock. Louis chuckles, but there is no humor in his face.

“It was for show,” he says. “She had great fun picking out that ring, but it was all pretend. We were never going to get married.”

“No?”

“No.” Louis’s tone is resolute.

Harry resumes chewing on his lip, staring at his phone. “How much of the rest is true?” He holds out the phone to Louis, still open on Wikipedia.

Louis reluctantly accepts the phone. He scrolls through the page for a moment, then says, “All of it, actually.”

Harry blinks in surprise. “Really?”

“They’re missing a lot of context, and the content of the more damaging rumors that were floating around at the time, but yeah, technically, this is all correct,” Louis clarifies. He sets the phone face-down on the coffee table.

“So you really were seeing Eleanor?”

“Is _that_ what interests you most, out of everything on that page? Whether or not I was seeing El?” Even in the pits of despair, Harry’s priorities coax a ghostly smirk out of Louis.

“It just surprised me,” Harry says, cheeks pink again. “I mean, it would make sense. You two go back a long time, and anyone with eyes can see that you love each other. And maybe she’s an exception, maybe you’re bisexual, I don’t know.”

“Your nuanced understanding of sexuality is appreciated, but no, I am definitely gay.” Louis snorts. “I love El a lot, but…well, I loved her in every way except that one. Which was the problem.”

“In what way?” Harry’s expression is timid, but his large lovely eyes are fixed on Louis’s face anyway, his whole body angles towards him with the intensity of his attention.

Louis takes several deep breaths, wills himself not to panic. He realizes, with Harry’s eyes still on him, that he has never told this whole story aloud to anyone at all – not even his family, whom he tried to shield from the worst of it. He glances to his left, to the wall with all those old pictures – Louis with his arms around Niall and Zayn’s shoulder, Louis and Liam laughing together at an awards show, Zayn giving Louis a noogie. He can’t decide whether it hurts or helps to look into their young faces, their bright eyes, as he looks for the words to explain everything.

When he can’t look at them anymore, he looks back to Harry, whose gaze has never wavered. Louis scoots back against the arm of the couch, holds his knees to his chest and faces Harry down. Harry does the same, his feet warm against Louis’s, his face so serious and so earnest.

“Are you sure you want to know?” Louis asks, one last time.

Harry doesn’t answer right away. But when he does, his voice is gentle.

“Listen, this isn’t an inquisition, all right? I’m sorry if I sounded demanding. I’m not asking because I want to _know things_. I’m asking because…because it seems like you’ve been holding onto some things for a really long time, and I think you’ll feel better if you talk about it, and I think it’ll help you write a better song if you talk about it. And I just want you to know that it’s safe to talk to me.”

Louis’s eyes are murky, his eyebrows low like storm clouds, his expression difficult to read. His heart is a creature in turmoil, too eager and too afraid. But after a beat, he says, “I believe you.” Another beat. “Where should I start?”

Harry considers. “The beginning, probably.”

\--

Louis is not accustomed to the art of searching his long memory and retrieving the painful bits to recount for someone else. He hasn’t spoken to the band since they broke up. He didn’t tell his family any more than they squeezed out of him on his rare trips home, and Eleanor was a witness to so much of it that she never needed to ask. And there was no one else – no Victoria’s Secret model in the middle of the night, no journalist with perfect teeth and an inviting smile, no Hollywood “friend” speaking behind closed doors at a big-shot producer’s mansion party – that Louis trusted enough with any piece of himself.

But he watches Harry’s face – his lush, expressive eyes, his too-wide mouth that laughs more readily than Louis can fathom – and he tries.

“The story in the press about how the band started is a lie,” he starts. “The real story is actually better. Simon – that was our manager, Simon Cowell – he wanted the credit for putting us grateful strangers together, so we were never allowed to contradict him, but we knew each other beforehand. I met Zayn first, when we were in negotiations to be signed as individuals, at the label’s Christmas party. We did drunk karaoke to ‘Eye of the Tiger.’ Liam was filling in for Zayn’s background vocals one time, and they got on famously. And then Zayn and I liked listening to local artists at bars on the weekends, and we heard Nialler doing a set one Friday, so we bought him a round and it turned into three, and before you know it, we’re all four of us screwing around in the studio together, and Simon hears it, and he’s holding our individual contracts hostage because he wants us to be a band. Niall came up with the name, because he decided the only direction we were going was up.”

“So you and Zayn were close first.”

“Yeah. Liam and I didn’t quite see eye to eye at the beginning. Liam had a fireman’s pole up his arse because he was young and ambitious and he didn’t like that I was, let’s say, Type B about how things got done. He wanted timetables and deadlines, and I wanted to go with the flow. He wanted to be The Beatles and I just wanted to make some money to take home to my broke single mum, with the four hungry girls who ate cereal for dinner some nights. It was just after her divorce, before my step-father, before my last two siblings were born, and we were all desperate; it’s why I went into this at all, because I did fuck all in school and I was never going to be a doctor or a lawyer or summat, and this was the only thing I knew how to do that would make me more than minimum wage cleaning shit or folding shirts. And once I got signed, I was cruising, but Liam wanted more than that.”

“What did Niall and Zayn want?”

“Nialler was in it for the fun of it; he was already having a blast doing shows around L.A. while bartending, so he didn’t _need_ the gig, he just did it because he thought it might be a laugh. Zayn was like me, though, it was why we got on so well in the beginning. He loved to sing, but he also had a mum working in his school cafeteria, and a dad who couldn’t catch a break, and three sisters, one of whom had dreams of going to college. He needed the money more than the artistic integrity Liam wanted. So we were this hodge-podge group who all wanted different things, and we used to fight a fair bit – well, Liam and I used to fight – over what our sound was going to be, who we were going to portray ourselves as to the world.”

“But you and Liam did eventually become close.”

“Yeah. Yeah, because he was a good guy – pure, really – and we had this bonding night, which was Niall’s idea, just before the first album came out, at Niall’s place in Mullingar. His parents had planned a trip away for a weekend to see Greg, Niall’s brother, so we got the house for two days, away from our handlers and everything else, to just sort our shit out. And Liam kind of broke down that night – we all did, but Liam especially – and he talked about how he had been touring all over England with his dad in his dad’s old Corolla, playing every place he could think of for years, and now this thing had fallen into his lap, and it wasn’t what he expected, and I wasn’t taking it seriously enough for him. And that was when I knew he was desperate too, like Zayn and me – and even Niall, in a sense, who’d moved out to L.A. alone because he’d known there was nothing for him in Mullingar – and that helped, I think. Knowing that we all had something we had to do. Liam made more sense to me. And once I started hearing him out, there was a lot to learn about music itself – how it was written, how it was constructed – that I found I cared about.

“Because Simon didn’t want me for my singing voice, see. He told me, one time while we were recording the first album, when the other lads were dismissed from the studio. I never told them this, but he stopped me, and he told me, quite seriously, that my voice was not going to cut it, and he was going to promote me as the goofball, the comic relief, instead of as a singer who got killer solos. I was only kept around because Simon decided I kept the other boys entertained and happy. So I figured, all right, I’m not a singer – so I’ll be a writer. I’ll produce, and watch how deals are negotiated, and maybe that’s what I’ll do when this thing ends. Because Simon was never going to help me with a solo career, and I knew that, even when I was seventeen.”

“Louis, that’s—”

“Life. That’s just life, in this industry. I didn’t have the voice, but I had a decent face, and my personality translated well on camera, and I picked up quick in the studio when the men with headphones did their thing with the sliders. And Liam was interested in all of that too – of course he was, he was the single most ambitious person I’ve ever met in my life – so we figured it out together. Taught each other from the scraps we each picked up. Nialler taught us both how to play guitar. I taught Liam piano. We wrote together all the time after the weekend in Niall’s cabin, but we were only allowed to use our stuff on the third album, after threatening Simon with our exit clause.”

“And your writing was amazing.”

“It gave us the control we needed over who we were. Because we didn’t have that, really, even as we got older. It’s like the more we grew, and the more we figured out about the industry, the more Simon wanted to use his tentacles to mold us into his idea of success. Simon wanted Liam to _marry_ this Disney girl, Danielle. Liam was barely eighteen at the time. And he was ‘seeing’ her the entire time we were in the band, because her career took off and Simon had dollar signs in his eyes. Zayn had a constant revolving door of models he was linked with, though he never actually slept with most of them. Nialler had a couple of models too, but we used to call him Teflon because no story would ever stick to him.”

“Did you have that too? Is that why you had all those women on your Wiki page?”

“Yeah. But for me, it was…complicated, in a way it wasn’t for the other lads. Because the other lads were straight, and I knew – I mean, I’d known since I was a kid – that I didn’t see girls the way they did. And I’d come out to my mum about a week after I got signed with One Direction. It was a secret, it had to be a secret, but it got harder to pretend. None of us got to kiss who we wanted to kiss, but – it was worse, in that way, for me. Because if I ever kissed who I wanted to kiss, the world would end.”

“Louis…”

“The others knew. I told them that weekend. Liam first, on the first night, after he’d broken down, and Niall and Zayn were asleep. It was the first secret I ever told Liam. And I thought he would hate me, but he hugged me and said it didn’t change anything. And I told Niall and Zayn in the morning, and I just couldn’t even believe I was lucky enough that they didn’t want to throw me out of the band for something that wasn’t nearly as acceptable as it is now.”

“Did Simon know?”

“It was inevitable he’d find out eventually. But I actually screamed it at him during a meeting for album two promo, because he wanted me to kiss Britney Spears at an awards show and I said I’d rather kiss K-Fed. And Simon figured out I was serious.”

“So what did he do?”

“He couldn’t kick me out of the band, even though he made it clear he felt I was a disgusting abomination. His greatest challenge became figuring out how to closet me. Because I stopped cooperating. I went to the parties, but I wouldn’t let myself get caught touching the models or the actresses. I drank too much, and when that stopped making those parties tolerable, I tried some of the other stuff that was floating around and too easy to get. I was miserable, because I was in a band but I wasn’t singing, and my songs had to be vetted by all kinds of clueless, tone-deaf people who kept fighting me – and then I was the gay one, the liability. And everyone was watching, like, waiting for me to make a mistake – and it was free press when I did make a mistake, so even my own team would send cameras to follow me when I went out, and the paps would catch me high off my arse. Except, of course, no one knew about the part when I went home afterward and threw up and either the lads or El would be up with me all night, trying to sort out the mess.

“Well, my mum kind of knew. She kept calling, and she’d be crying, because my oldest sisters knew their way around the Internet and they saw the shit in the papers about me, and they were all upset and asking questions. And that just made it worse, right, because I couldn’t stand to be sober for the parties or the photoshoots or even, eventually, the recording and writing sessions – but if I wasn’t sober, my mum cried more. She wanted me to come home, but of course I couldn’t. My sisters called all the time with questions, but of course I couldn’t answer them.

“Dating El for public consumption was her idea. She and my bodyguard were supposed to have eyes on me at all times, so she was well-placed to be my girlfriend, and we were close, so the PDA wouldn’t be as forced for the cameras. She wanted to help, even though she was seeing the guy who would become her first husband at the time. Simon and our team put out the engagement story to give the magazines a more positive angle to discuss. El did a couple of interviews talking about how I was trying to turn things around; she’s good with the press, they ate it up. She protected me in every way she could, but…well, she couldn’t exactly save me. Not as I was then.

“She tried. Liam tried. Niall tried. Zayn tried. But when you’re hellbent on destroying yourself before someone else does, it’s tough for anyone to reach you. El held my hand in public and that satisfied Simon enough to spare me models and stories of drunken escapades in the press. Nialler was like a golden retriever; he curled up with me at night so I didn’t sleep alone, took care of me when I was drunk or hungover. When I got restless, Zayn took me tagging; he loved graffiti-ing somewhere out of the way, and I liked the adventure. But Liam was the mother hen, the kind of person who loves so hard that he overwhelms you. He kept…you know, going through my stuff for ‘random drug searches,’ policing how many drinks I’d had when we went to parties, forcing me to stay in with him on an off night so he could watch me. I knew what he was trying to do, but he felt more like a prison minder than my friend. And I knew it disappointed him when I screwed up, drank too much, puked all over a hotel bathroom again. I couldn’t handle his guilt and his judgment and that sense that I was screwing up his destiny because I couldn’t get my shit together. I knew he wanted to focus on the music, rather than have half his mind constantly occupied with me. He was frustrated that he couldn’t do more – with the music, or with me. It made us both bitter. That’s why we fought, in the end, and that’s why the band broke up.

“I did the solo album because I wanted to show him up, prove I could stick it out on my own without him there to write with me or babysit me. It was stupid, because I was a mess and so was the album. But Liam – well, he was always meant to go places. Which, he did. And so I couldn’t bear to see him again, let him know that he was right about how my demons would ruin me. He was better off without me, without the band, and – well, there wasn’t much left to say after that, was it? I fucked everything up, and drove him away, and I just…couldn’t get involved after that. And I didn’t. He’d kept the last few songs we’d written together, made them go platinum because he had the voice for them, and I kept a low profile for a while. El stuck it out with me through those years for reasons unbeknownst to me, then as well as now, and she was the one to find me the first One Direction gig – some concert for a sorority of girls who were as profoundly grateful to see me as I was them. And I kind of…limped on ever since. Not on any talent of my own, but because El is tenacious with the gig-booking, and because One Direction was as big a deal as it was, and we rode out the wave as long as we could.”

“What was it like, coming out in 2005? Did it help?”

“I didn’t do any interviews. I didn’t have a cover on _People_ , or all the fanfare some people get now. I didn’t feel like I owed anyone that much. The only debt I had was to myself, for being forced into a closet I never asked for, so I had El tail me at a club and leak some pictures to the press of me getting...comfortable. All I cared about was not covering anything up or lying anymore. I didn’t do the interviews, but people knew, and that was enough for me. And it was…I mean, I thought it would be liberating, going out all the time and fucking anyone who’d have me. But it wasn’t. First time I went down on a guy, he turned around and tried to sell the story to a tabloid. El and I had to pull in all the favors we’d ever had, shutting him up. And I pulled successfully several times after, but sex gets old fast. And I didn’t want the relationship-y get-to-know-you type stuff, either – too much baggage. I don't like going out anymore. It just…doesn’t appeal to me. I do my gigs, I’m a connoisseur of modern television, I give 5% of everything I make to charity because it feels shitty to have so much more than I need, and – and now I’m writing for Taylor Swift, and El got me an audition for _Teen Wolf_ on Monday. And I met you. And now I don’t have any secrets anymore.”

The lines in Louis’s face, lit by the lamps glowing golden in the fast-approaching evening, betray his age, his exhaustion. His edges seem so soft, his t-shirt and jeans and his fringe over his forehead. But the glow of his eyes is brighter than anything in the room – a blazing, forget-me-never blue. His arms are wrapped defensively around his person, but his eyes are warrior eyes. They meet Harry’s green ones – brilliant, sweet, unbearably sad – with an intensity like magma.

Harry bites down on his lower lip. “Thank you for telling me all of that, Louis.”

Louis’s jaw is tight, his shoulders tense. “You’re welcome.”

“I just—can I hug you?”

Louis’s eyebrows arch in surprise.

“I’m sorry.” Harry seems to restrain himself, crosses his arms against his chest. “I’m kind of a hugger, and…and it’s hard for me to hear you say these things that hurt you without being able to touch you.”

Louis considers for a moment. “You can hug me. If you want.”

He doesn’t need any more than that; in a flash, Harry’s arms are open, coaxing Louis up on his knees, bringing him in. Harry buries his face in Louis’s shoulder, holds him close enough to feel the faint beating of his heart against his body. And Louis relaxes only now, Harry’s arms like a harness around the middle of his back. His face is in Harry’s shoulder, his arms around Harry’s neck. He quivers a little, the last leaf of autumn hanging on until the snow, finally ready to start letting go. His breathing is warm and muffled against the seam of Harry’s shirt.

“I’m sorry, you know,” Harry says from behind Louis’s shoulder. “For every day someone made you feel like less than you are.”

Louis’s exhale is shaky. “That is _such_ a line, Curly.”

“It’s true,” Harry insists, holding Louis tighter. “I hope you know that people are proud of you.”

“My family _was_ ,” Louis admits. When he sighs, it sends Harry’s curls flying. “Especially at first, when this job felt like a gift, like winning the lottery. But even winning the lottery has consequences, especially of the taxation sort. And I paid those dues. And nothing worked out like it was supposed to.”

“No?” Harry lets go of Louis, mostly to watch his face, the blue of his eyes.

“Well, let’s see. I was supposed to be a famous popstar all on my own – but I got put in a band, and I didn’t get a lot of solos. My band was supposed to last forever with all the records we broke – but I split it up. I was supposed to be a nice, clean-cut straight boy who brought home a wife and grandchildren – but I am both gay and single.”

“You can still bring home grandchildren,” Harry points out.

“True, but they will not have a mother, and so will turn out to be deviants and perverts.” Louis tries to roll his eyes, but he can’t quite get there; his eyes avert down for the first time all day, reveal the length of his eyelashes.

“That’s not true.” Harry seems to work very hard to resist the urge to hug again, and takes Louis’s hand in his. They are on their knees on the couch, and Harry is still taller, making Louis look up through those long eyelashes into Harry’s face. “Any child of yours, biological or adopted, would be lucky to have you. They would get the best lullabies. And they’d grow up loved.”

Louis lets Harry squeeze his hand – just once, tightly, the weight of his palm different than Eleanor’s but somehow just as comforting. His exhale is still shaky, but less so.

“I hate when my family asks for recordings of my performances,” he admits. “They deserve to see me do better than knock-off gigs at theme parks. They should be proud of me for something I did right.”

“You sell yourself so short.” Harry abandons restraint, hugs Louis again. “You’re singing, doing what you love. And those songs are…they’re _beautiful_. And you helped create them. And whatever Simon said back then, you carry them all by yourself, and people are excited to hear you sing them.”

“I don’t know what to _do_.” Louis sinks back into the couch, shrinks away from Harry and hugs his calves inward, like before. “I don’t know…how I’m supposed to go on from here, and write any song Taylor Swift would be interested in, and even if she were…”

“Hey. Hey.” Harry, still kneeling, rests a hand on Louis’s knee. “Let’s cross that bridge when we get there.” He mulls it over for a minute. “Do you want me to make some tea? Do you have any biscuits around?”

Louis snickers, his smile watery but present. “Yeah, I have biscuits. I can just—”

“No, tell me, I’ll get them.”

“I have to make the tea anyway. I’m very picky; don’t take it personally.”

“I bet I can make you tea that you like,” Harry persists, gently pushing Louis back into the couch. “Sit tight.”

Louis looks like he might argue, but doesn’t.

Harry smiles like the break of dawn, and pads into the kitchen, starts the kettle.

\--

Harry brings the tea – good tea, drinkable tea, Louis is impressed – and he also brings the biscuits, and orders pizza for dinner when Louis is distracted by the tea and biscuits. There is no trace of pineapple on the pizza, for which Louis is truly grateful.

They eat in silence when it comes, watching some old movie Louis finds while flipping channels. Louis’s back is to the left of the sofa and Harry’s is on the right; their feet meet in the middle, and their knees lean against each other like old men weary after a long day. They don’t look at each other much, except to pass pizza or beer. But the silence is comfortable, not intimidating.

A few more memories come to mind, as Louis’s mind finally wanders to those previously untouchable places he’d long taped off. There was that time towards the end, with Eleanor, after some near miss at a club when Louis made eyes on a beautiful man for too long, and Liam made him go home, and Eleanor let him stay in her bed that night. How he kissed her – the only time he kissed her when there wasn’t a camera present – kissed her hot and sloppy and desperate, tried to fumble for her bra like men were supposed to like it in movies, tried to love her like he was supposed to love her. It tasted like salt, because he was crying, and she started crying, and she let him kiss her until their lips were bruised and raw with it, and they fell asleep in a confused pile of misery. They never talked about that night again, but he shared her bed many more times afterwards, hating himself for how safe he felt when she held him – how he loved her more than anyone, but it still wasn’t enough to make him normal—

And there was that final fight, the one in Singapore while they were on what ended up being their last tour: Liam screaming _big fucking trainwreck headed to fucking nowhere_ in uncharacteristic rage, the veins in his neck popping high and red; Louis screaming back, _simpering fucking traitor with a fucking savior complex_ , all the blood rushing to his head; Niall and Zayn, physically restraining the two of them, Niall’s face blotchy and wet with tears; everyone storming away angry in the sleepy dawn, unable to muster a word—

Louis, flown back in a jet that was too small to contain his despair, taking to his bed at his mum’s house and refusing to talk to anyone, even as his mother restrained his sisters from breaking down his door; Niall, calling later that day, voice hitched and shaky, saying that Liam had started the paperwork to dissolve the band – begging over that scratchy phone line for Louis to please, please come back, please fix this, please don’t let it end just yet – begging, while Louis held the phone to his ear, unable to hang up nor promise his friend a happy ending, stuck in frozen agony while Niall cried on the line for a full eight minutes, gasping shuddering sobs that made bloody confetti out of Louis’s heart—

The paperwork, signed in a haze, everyone sorting out legal obligations and finances separately through lawyers, never seeing each other again in person, even when Niall called again and again and again, clogging Louis’s voicemail with messages, then Zayn calling, calling, calling his mum’s house and Lottie’s phone, even Liam calling once without leaving a message, until the phones stopped ringing and they stopped trying—

Lottie, the first one to wrench Louis’s door open, a cannonball of a girl flinging herself on top of her brother and crying over the last five years for almost half an hour, hysterical about everything the reporters said, everything the kids in school whispered about, and _are you okay, Lou, what did they do to you, what did they do_ – before the rest of the Tomlinson siblings heard the commotion, charged into the room, lay on top of Louis for hours as though afraid he would disappear if they let him go for even a second—

Louis’s eyes overflow a little, now, over his pizza, remembering. Everything so long ago, and suddenly fresh in his mind like it all happened last week. Like there’s still time to wake up, and thaw, and heal, and call Niall back. Like he’s still in his twenties with too much time to kill.

His life is quiet tragedy – under the radar, easy to miss. The worst kind of tragedy, because it’s wasted time and wasted potential, wasted innocence, shriveled love left in a box too long. He knows this – but somehow he doesn’t feel especially tragic now, all things considered, eating pizza with Harry Styles across the sofa, breathing just an arm’s length away, his toes softly grazing the knobby bone of Louis’s ankle.

For once, Louis feels present – full with dinner, with remembrance. This song is probably never going to get written, but it doesn’t matter now. The ghosts are quiet. The only sounds Louis hears are the movie, Harry’s chewing, and his own heartbeat, steady through everything.

And he can’t recall the last time he sat in this room, ate something stuffed with calories, and felt glad that he was alive.


	7. Chapter 7

 

Louis doesn’t remember the end of the movie, or even falling asleep – just a vague sensation of warm sleepiness, tugging at the edges of his frayed consciousness as the night set in. He slumps into the crook of the couch and sleeps dreamlessly, a plate with half a cold pizza slice still balanced on his lap. He only stirs in the pale light of dawn, casting its brightness directly into his eyes.

For a second he doesn’t remember where he or who he is. He blinks into the sunlight, puts the plate on the floor. He’s covered by the blanket that’s usually draped over the loveseat, still in yesterday’s corduroys, his ankles crossed on the arm of the sofa. It takes him another second to realize that Harry has moved from the couch beside Louis to the floor, spread out on his stomach with the legal pad in front of him, pen in hand. When Louis sits up, clears his throat and rubs his eyes, Harry looks up. His eyes are tired, but his smile is true.

“Morning, Lou,” he says, sitting up properly. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah, actually.” Louis pauses. “Wait, what time is it? Did you sleep at all?”

“No,” Harry admits, “because…I’m done.”

“Done?”

“With the lyrics. To the song. I think.” Harry glances back down at the legal pad perched on his legs. “I think I might have written the words to a song last night?”

All morning grogginess instantly forgotten, Louis kicks off the blanket and joins Harry on the floor. “May I?”

“Sure.” Harry hands the legal pad over, his face soft and tentative as he watches Louis closely for his reaction.

Late at night, in your room  
Making easy conversation  
I’ve been waiting so long  
To let go of myself and feel alive

So many nights I thought it over  
Told myself I kind of liked her  
But there was something missing in her eyes

I was stumbling, looking in the dark  
With an empty heart  
But you say you feel the same

And it’s all right,  
Calling out to somebody to hold you tonight  
When you’re lost, I’ll find the way  
I’ll be your light  
You’ll never feel like you’re alone  
I’ll make this feel like home

The heat of you, I couldn’t take it  
I want to wake up and see your face  
Remember how good it was being here last night  
  
I’m still a little high on the feeling  
I see the smile as it starts to creep in  
It was there, I saw it in your eyes

And it’s all right,  
Calling out for somebody to hold you tonight  
When you’re lost, I’ll find the way  
I’ll be your light  
You’ll never feel like you’re alone  
I’ll make this feel like home

“I didn’t necessarily have a melody in mind, so you can change the words as you need,” Harry explains hastily. “And I mean…I’ve never written a song before, so I don’t even know if this is what you were looking for, if this could work, but—”

Louis sets the pad down and meets Harry’s eyes, something infinitely tender in his expression. “You wrote this last night?”

“Um…yes.” Harry’s cheeks go pink; he shrugs uncomfortably, runs a hand through his curls. “I, uh…I guess I was finally inspired.”

“This is…” Louis chews on his bottom lip, reads it all through one more time. Pressure builds up behind his eyes, a chaotic restlessness blossoming in his chest. “Harry, this is lovely.”

“You think you can turn that into a song?” Harry’s tone quirks upward, hopeful.

“Yeah. Yeah, I think—here, let me try something.”

Louis picks up the legal pad and rushes to the piano, the germ of an idea already taking root in his head. Harry follows, settles himself into the single-seater he positioned by the piano – just a few days ago, but practically a lifetime. Louis considers the page in front of him, lips pursed in concentration, then closes his eyes and plays a couple of different riffs, searching for a mood. It all hinges for him on those two lines, at the end of what is clearly the chorus – _you’ll never feel like you’re alone, I’ll make this feel like home._ It should hold the comfort and gentleness of a lullaby, but belongs in a major key. He feels Harry’s gaze on him, as he tries to shake his brain from the stupor of last night, of the last eight years, find the pulse of the poem in front of him.

“I can go get breakfast, if you want,” he hears Harry say, as though from a distance. “Give you time to work, come back with coffee?”

“All right,” Louis hears himself say, before getting lost in the riff again.

\--

It _is_ lovely. These are such lovely lyrics that Louis forgets all sense of self and place and time, lets Harry leave, and starts experimenting with harmonies on the piano, even pulls out his guitar to see how it sounds with strings.

The song isn’t necessarily what Louis expected, but he _knows_ , with a certainty beyond logic, that it’s perfect. And if Taylor Swift doesn’t go for it, her taste is irredeemable. The end of the chorus nags him, haunts him, with how simultaneously simple and piercing it is. Louis keeps coming back to it, trying to find a melody that fits the earnestness of it, how deeply it strikes him with the rising dawn bathing the piano (and all the dust it’s collected) in gold. The figurative language isn’t anything new or groundbreaking – almost every artist has a song or two about a relationship that feels like home – but what compels Louis is how baldly Harry wrote it, how it sounds like the speaker is trying to love their lover back together again. It’s a story that’s been told since the beginning of language – a love that goes right after too many loves that go wrong – but for every individual who lives it, it’s like a revelation. It’s not just the person, but the very idea of a healing love, that feels new again – a sunrise that somehow transcends triteness because right now, this moment, morning has never felt sweeter.

Some of these lyrics will need to be changed to fit Louis’s emerging rhythm. Louis already returns to the floor, fishes Harry’s pen from its spot near the rug, frowning as he crosses out words to fit into the arrangement currently writing itself in his mind. But the core of Harry’s lyrics – _you’ll never feel like you’re alone, I’ll make this feel like home_ – is firmly lodged somewhere behind his heart.

There is just one hole that needs filling – the transition from the verses to the chorus. Louis has set the chord progression, but the song needs one line, maybe two, riding the chords, before the chorus. Louis chews on the cap of the pen, lost in thought, playing the chords over and over again and staring at the page full of lyrics, as though they hold the secret between the faint blue lines of the legal pad.

By the time Harry returns to the apartment, armed with coffee and bagels from the coffee shop down the street, Louis has sorted out the chorus and is tinkering a couple of ideas for the first verse. He’s ripped out the page with lyrics and placed it on the left side of the piano, and has the rest of the pad on the left side, filling in his sloppily-drawn staff lines with chords. Harry sets the food down on the coffee table, peers interestedly at Louis’s progress.

“How’s it coming?” he asks, making Louis start.

“Good, I think,” Louis says, staring thoughtfully at the page full of chords. “Here, what do you think?”

He plays the melodic line of the chorus on the piano twice, the second time better than the first. Harry appears simply dumbfounded, his jaw slack with surprise.

“That…sounds like a _song_ ,” Harry says, when Louis’s fingers go still.

“Well, yes.” Louis smirks, but his eyes are indulgent. “We have indeed been trying to write a song around here for several days, Curly.”

“Yeah, but – can you sing it with the words? How does that sound?”

“Uh…sure.” Louis makes a note on the page of music, then returns to the lyrics. “Just, bear in mind that the piano isn’t set in stone – we’ll try it with the guitar, and add the drum line in the studio when we record – so this is by no means final, and you can tell me if you hate it, but, um. Here we go.”

But when he sings the chorus – his hands sure as they hit the chords, his voice sweet when layered over the piano – Harry claps before he’s even finished, flopping down on the single-seater with a luminous grin on his face.

“Oh my god, Lou. It’s a real song.” His giggle is wondrous, giddy. “I can’t believe it.”

“I think we still need another line, though, just before the chorus.” Louis plays the chords again. “ _You say you feel the same_ – and then something else before _it’s all right_.”

“Hmmm.” Harry curls up tighter on his single-seater, tucks in his ankles and pretends to rub an imaginary beard on his smooth chin. “Hmmmmmmm.”

Louis sings the first verse with just the bare skeleton of his melody, but he’s still frowning, his mind elsewhere, struggling to connect the dots. Harry lets him play it through twice, before reaching over to the coffee table and plucking the two coffees out of his cardboard carrier.

“I think we need a breakfast break,” Harry says solemnly, passing Louis his cup. “I’m not sure how you take it, but I took an educated guess based on how you made your tea last night.”

Louis takes an experimental sip. “God. You guessed it right.”

“ _Yes_!” Harry fist-pumps in delighted victory.

“Are you some kind of savant with tea and coffee? Because you made excellent tea last night with no prompting on the first try, and it took me literally years to train Eleanor.”

“I have extremely refined taste,” Harry says, his dimple deep and his green eyes bright, “so I assume that everyone with similarly refined tastes will like what I choose. And you apparently have refined taste, so congratulations.”

“Ha! I’ll drink to that.” Louis grins, raises his cup in Harry’s direction. “Cheers.”

“Cheers!” Harry sips his coffee, then reaches for the bagels.

He and Louis drink their coffee and share the bagels in companionable quiet, as the sun takes its proper daytime place in the cloudless sky – another beautiful April morning. Harry ties his hair back up into a bun, his rumpled shirt in artful disarray, revealing the lower tips of his stomach butterfly. He still looks tired, but he’s unmistakably happy, smiling unconsciously through his breakfast. And that joy is infectious, rubbing off on Louis; Louis, who hates mornings, who never grins into his coffee or savors his bagels. But it’s a _good_ morning. It’s a breakthrough. In yesterday’s clothes, sitting at the piano bench with a mess of paper, his mouth full of food and Harry’s words, Louis radiates levity.

And it’s as he’s swallowing down the last of his bagel, appreciating the delicate curve of Harry’s neck with his hair out of his face, that the missing line reveals itself to Louis.

“ _Could we ever be enough?”_ he sings suddenly. “ _Maybe we could be enough._ ”

Harry nearly spills his coffee over his lap.

“Write that down,” he urges, as though Louis needs any prompting, the pen already in his hand.

“Okay, so— and then this could all be transition, could put this into sort of falsetto range, her soprano would go well there, and then—” Louis scribbles so furiously he rips the page. “Listen to this: _I was stumbling / looking in the dark / with an empty heart / and you say you feel the same / could we ever be enough? / maybe we could be enough_ . Drumbeat here, then – _it’s all right, callin’ out to somebody to hold you for_ – no, no, we could do like, _it’s all right, callin’ out for somebody to hold tonight_ —”

Harry has already set down his coffee, leans in eagerly, eyes as wide and round as coins. “Yes, that’s it!”

“This will work, I’ll give her the _stumbling, looking in the dark_ and I’ll chime in on _you say you feel the same, could we ever be enough_ , and she can answer me – _maybe we could be enough_.”

“I love it.” Harry sounds oddly breathless.

“I do too, frankly.” Louis scribbles down his notes, turns back to Harry with the same doe-in-headlights face, the same breathlessness. “I think—yeah, I think that’ll do it, for the first verse and chorus. We’ll add the harmonies in the studio.”

“I can’t wait to hear it.” Harry’s hands fly over his mouth, his whole being seeming to vibrate with energy. “Lou, this is—”

“It’s all thanks to you, really,” Louis says fervently. “I mean, without your lyrics—”

“But what you’ve done with this melody—”

“I knew you had it in you, Harry.” Louis’s expression is soft, his praise genuine. “I just. I had a feeling. And you – you more than delivered.”

Harry’s face isn’t big enough for his smile; his dimple cuts a canyon in his cheek, his eyes somehow both sparkling and shy. “I’m so glad you like it.”

“Sebastian Hamilton is going to eat his sorry heart out when he hears this,” Louis decides.

“You really think Taylor’ll go for it?” Harry bites down hard on his generous lower lip.

“Yes, I do. Based on her discography, and this idea she had about strength – this is right up her alley. She’s going to love it.”

Harry takes a deep sip of his coffee, clutching it tightly in his hands. When he resurfaces, he’s sparkly and giddy all over again.

“This is probably the coolest thing I’ve ever done,” he confesses.

Louis smiles so hard his eyes crinkle with it. He sets his coffee down on the piano, a safe distance from the legal pad. “I can’t focus on breakfast anymore. Let’s try this second verse again.”

\--

For all the angst and conflict of the past few days, Saturday morning runs smoothly, a long sustained note of cheerful productivity, high and clear as a bell that doesn’t stop ringing. Harry gradually shifts from the single-seater to the other side of Louis’s piano bench, his thigh pressed snugly against Louis’s as he watches Louis’s hands confidently wring a whole song out of its ivory keys. Harry’s sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, a few wisps of hair falling out of his bun and around his face, and he smells like the inside of a coffee shop, adding lyric changes to the legal pad as Louis calls them out. Louis, for his part – hair rumpled and in need of a wash, the sleeves of his sweater falling back to his wrists even when he pushes them up – plays the notes over and over, changing the key, trying to get it right.

Harry tries to help, but his lack of musical training means that his advice consists mainly of, “make it sound happier,” or “do it exactly like that but, like, lower.” He finishes his steadily cooling coffee beside Louis, who gets annoyed by the piano some time around nine o’clock and fetches his guitar, straddles the piano bench to face Harry and asks, again and again, how it sounds on another instrument. Harry says from the start that he prefers the piano, but Louis insists on the guitar for at least another hour, before giving in.

It’s as though something has been unlocked inside them – in Louis more than Harry – a thawing that makes everything so much less difficult, all of a sudden. Louis does not lose his neurotic perfectionism – he plays everything at least four times to make sure he really likes it or really hates it, where Harry’s opinion is set the first time around – but he takes criticism, offers ideas, tweaks lyrics. He builds a real song around Harry’s words, and takes Harry seriously, no matter how inelegantly he phrases his thoughts. They huddle together on the piano bench until about eleven o’clock, the legal pad becoming almost illegible with their additions and amendments.

When Harry’s stomach chooses then to growl so loudly that both he and Harry jump, Louis checks the time and nearly falls off the bench. “Christ, have we really been at it for four hours?”

“It would appear so.” Harry tries to stifle his yawn, but Louis pulls his hands back from the piano, faces Harry again.

“You need to sleep,” he says. “You’ve more than done your work today, you deserve some rest.”

“Are you going to keep working on this?” Harry asks through a second, deeper yawn.

“Maybe. Probably. I need to sort out the back half of the song, how the two melodic lines will fit together.”

“Do you need me for it?” Harry blinks at Louis with such innocence that Louis has to work hard to contain his fondness.

“No, no, please sleep. I’ll play it for you later.”

“I could also use a shower,” Harry notes, taking a quick sniff of his armpit. “I think the last shower I took was here before your show.”

“You must have had quite enough of me this weekend, sorry about that.” Louis coughs uselessly into his elbow, mostly to hide his blush.

“It isn’t like that,” Harry insists, a hand on Louis’s shoulder.

“In any case, you should rest,” Louis says, gently shifting away from Harry on the bench. “I’ll, uh – call you tomorrow?”

“I’m going to be at the bakery early tomorrow working on a wedding cake,” Harry explains. “Plus Gem will probably need my help making the rest of the pastries for this other catering order we have, so. I’ll be there at six in the morning and I’ll probably stay until the afternoon.” Harry hesitates, then adds, “You can come visit me at the bakery, if you’re awake.”

“Really?” Louis is genuinely surprised.

“Yeah. I mean, if you’re up for it. I’ve practically been living here writing this song, and – and I dunno, it’s only fair to invite you to my natural habitat as well. But no pressure! Only if you’re up for it.”

The slow cadence of Harry’s naturally low voice is as casual and serene as ever, but it’s Harry’s face that intrigues Louis – unguarded, almost hopeful. The wisps of flyaway curls around his hairline, the fullness of his mouth contrasting with the paleness of his skin, are almost impossibly endearing.

“Tell you what, Curly,” Louis says. “If I’m awake before noon, I will come visit you at the bakery. And we can schedule studio time for the evening, if that’s alright with you, so we can be done a whole day sooner than Taylor asked for.”

“Okay.” Harry is so easy to please, his playful grin so effortlessly drawn out of him. “All right, well. I hope you wake up before noon, then.”

“Go get some sleep, Styles. And don’t touch a piano for at least twelve hours.”

Harry laughs. “Sure. Thanks, Louis.”

“Thank _you_.”

They rise from the piano bench together, and Harry pulls on his boots in the entrance while Louis watches, arms folded tight against his chest, almost protectively. When Harry has picked up his coat and double-checked he has his possessions, he seems to want to offer Louis a goodbye hug, his eyes almost expectant. But ultimately, he doesn’t, and opens the door to let himself out. He waves to Louis as he sets off down the hall, but then he’s gone and the apartment feels emptier, bereft without him. Louis lingers in his own doorway for several long seconds before closing the door, facing his silent living room, the bagel wrappers and empty coffee cups on the piano and table, Harry’s chair in the wrong place but somehow looking too at home for Louis to consider moving it back.

He surveys the space almost dazedly, but decides to follow his own advice to Harry: go to bed, get some proper sleep, deal with this later rather than sooner.

And after last night, this morning – Louis’s bed has never been a sweeter place to land. He sheds his pants and sweater, dives beneath the covers, and within seconds, he’s gone.

\--

The nap, deep but fitful, comes to a bittersweet close nearly two hours later, when Louis feels a hand in his hair and wakes up with a jolt.

Sitting daintily on the bed beside his sprawled-out form is Eleanor, her fingernails freshly polished to a tasteful shade of maroon, her head tilted to the side and her mouth pursed unhappily.

“Oh good, so you’re alive,” she remarks, her tone like acid. “When I walked in, I wasn’t sure.”

To his mortification, Louis realizes he’d fallen asleep with his mouth open and there is now a puddle of drool on his comforter. He rolls over to his back, wipes the sleep from his eyes and sticky lips, and negotiates himself into a sitting position. Even this small movement sends Louis’s head into an unsettled ache.

“Nice to see you too, El,” he tells her, yawning into his elbow.

“I tried calling, but you weren’t answering.”

“So you let yourself in. Perfect.” Louis smirks, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Eleanor is not amused. She flips her hair behind her shoulder, fixes him with her fierce brown laser gaze. “You know I wish I didn’t have to, but you were in a pretty dire state yesterday, and then this morning I get a call from Taylor Swift asking me if I’m coming to the _Tuesday_ meeting at 9am, because she’s making breakfast – and when I asked why it wasn’t Wednesday, she said she’d already cleared it with you. And I was afraid that maybe you’d done something horrible and drastic because you were already stressed out about this whole thing, and your coping mechanisms aren’t exactly what the American Psychological Association would call healthy – so, here I am, and I brought burgers, and I’m asking you, are you okay?”

Her hand is resting on his calf, the comforter acting as a buffer from her palm to his leg, and she is looking at him with such raw concern in the lines around her eyes, in the tense set of her well-glossed mouth. He rests his head back against the headboard, suddenly overwhelmed with a powerful feeling of sadness welling up in his throat.

Maybe it’s because of last night, revisiting the ugliness of his past and all the ways he’s let his loved ones down, but it hits him harder than usual now how codependent he and Eleanor are, how his hurt has so often become her hurt. How he has her living on the defensive, worried about the calls he doesn’t take, because she feels responsible for him – she, who spends so much of her time with him, because his family lives across the ocean and he refuses to let anyone else into his cloistered little world.

She isn’t saying it, but he knows that she remembers a year ago, when a long-standing performance at Mall of America got canceled, and he didn’t get out of bed for three days because he thought his career was finally over, and he stopped taking phone calls, and Eleanor later arrived in his apartment to find him passed out from dehydration, too much alcohol and too little food and too much sadness. She was the one who held his hand in the hospital, fielded worried calls from the Tomlinsons, kept the truth from his mother.

He might joke hollowly sometimes about her propensity for dropping in both frequently and unannounced, but they both know that Louis needs her, profoundly. He sighs, sits up a little straighter.

“I’m sorry I didn’t answer,” he says. “I was asleep, because Harry and I actually had a breakthrough on the song this morning.”

“Really?” This was apparently the last thing Eleanor expected to hear. “How much have you finished?”

“All the lyrics are done and I have to compose the back half.”

Eleanor blinks in astonishment. “You’re shitting me.”

Despite himself, Louis cracks a grin. “No, I’m not.”

“So, just like that, you went from having nothing yesterday, to a nearly complete song.”

“Harry was inspired last night,” Louis says simply.

“Get out of bed, I have to hear it.”

She smacks his leg, jumps off the bed and holds her hand out. Louis takes it, and lets her haul him out of bed in just his boxers. She’s hardly fazed, simply handing him a sweatshirt from the floor, which he pulls over his head. He takes her out to the piano, where she sits in the single-seater Harry has occupied over the last few days. He yawns, consults his notes again, and starts to play.

It sounds incomplete to Louis’s ears – it’s meant to be a duet after all – but when he finishes the second verse, Eleanor is looking at him as though he’s composed a symphony.

“ _Lou_ ,” she says, sighing proudly. “That sounds gorgeous so far. I love it, I really do.”

Louis curls his shoulders in, looking even smaller than usual in his oversized sweatshirt and boxers. “Thank you.”

“No, honestly. It’s great.” She rests her cheek on her knees, surveys Louis sideways. “I always knew you had it in you.”

“Mind, I still have composing to do. I don’t think I’m going to include a bridge, because repeating the chorus a couple more times in a different key should do it, but then I have to figure out those key changes.”

“Stop trying to talk me out of loving it. I already do.”

“I’m just _saying_ ,” Louis huffs, though his expression is soft, “that it’s not finished yet.”

“Are you going to finish it today? Tomorrow? Monday night?”

“Harry didn’t sleep last night, so I sent him home. We’ll probably try to finish it tomorrow. Can we get studio space?”

“I spoke to Ed this morning after Taylor called,” Eleanor says. “He’s perfectly fine with you dropping in on his home studio whenever you need. He said to tell you hi from Perth.”

“Brilliant. Thanks.” Ed Sheeran, one of the few industry acquaintances Louis doesn’t loathe, is currently on tour for his latest album and won’t be back until September. He’s offered to let Louis use his home studio before, but Louis has never had a reason to take him up on it until now.

He clears his throat. “So. I believe you said something about burgers.”

“I did.” Eleanor gestures towards Louis’s dining table, upon which a Five Guys bag sits like a victory flag. “Hungry?”

Louis nods again gratefully.

\--

They end up having a picnic on Louis’s bed, sitting cross-legged on the comforter and sharing the enormous order of Cajun fries between them, Eleanor changing the subject to the shenanigans she witnessed at the event she attended last night. By now, the stories of drunken actresses and loudmouthed rockstars are comforting to Louis – like lullabies, familiar in their consistency. He feels himself relax as they both laugh about Kate Upton throwing up all over a Jenner girl’s coat, taking bets on how much the dry-cleaning bill would be, if such a stain could be removed at all. They spend a cheerful few minutes googling the query, wondering what it takes to clean upchucked alcohol and party food from expensive mink.

When they’ve eaten their burgers, gone through more than half of the fries, Louis cuddles up into his comforter again, turns on the TV and starts scrolling through Netflix. Eleanor slips under the covers with him, lets him rest his head on her shoulder. She smells like grease but also her favorite perfume, the one by DKNY that smells like the color gold. He feels a bit drunk on the scent, on the food, on the surreal, throbbing, restless chaos brewing in his skull. He buries his face into her collarbone, breathing her in, and she takes the TV remote to put on _Gossip Girl_ as background noise.

“What’s going on with you?” Eleanor murmurs into Louis’s hair, squeezing his waist.

He groans, removes his face from her sternum. “I don’t know. It’s been a weird couple of days.”

“Yeah?” Her voice is gentle.

He sighs wearily, closing his eyes as his head begins to ache again. “Harry was blocked for ages, couldn’t commit to any kind of lyrics – and then last night, we had this minor sort of spat after I got Taylor’s call, and he went off about how he can’t write a song with me if he doesn’t know me, so he just…I don’t know, he asked me to start at the beginning, and I…did.”

“Beginning of what, exactly?”

“One Direction.”

He can’t see her face, from the way he’s positioned on her shoulder, but he can picture the look on her face – puzzled, pouting, her nose crinkled in confusion. “So…he asked for your life story?”

“He has a passion for personal questions.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I don’t even remember anymore. But, a lot. Liam, and closeting. He googled me – against my expressed wishes, I might add – and he saw that I’d been engaged to you, and it actually surprised him when I explained it wasn’t real.”

“Oh, right, we _were_ engaged!” Eleanor giggles. “I’d forgotten!”

“I had too. Harry was appalled such a detail could ever slip my mind.”

Eleanor cringes, her nose crinkling. “Poor thing.”

“He has since been enlightened to the ways of the rich and powerful, don’t worry.”

She whistles softly. “You guys really trawled through some ancient history, then, if you were talking about being engaged to me.”

“Didn't I propose to you after that show in Rome?” Louis remembers, laughing. “That night we snuck out to the Trevi fountain and nearly got arrested for jumping in?”

“I think so.” Eleanor’s eyes fling with mischief. “And while they were going through your stuff, they found the ring and you proposed to me while the handlers tried to negotiate your safe release with the Roman police. So romantic!”

“I was only twenty-one,” Louis points out.

“You were a delinquent and a cheeky arsehole,” Eleanor corrects, but she rests her head on top of his, her eyes still on the TV.

They are quiet for a moment, watching Blair and Chuck argue on the TV. “Do you ever think…about what’s next?”

“What do you mean?” Louis asks.

“You know, just…” Eleanor seems to weigh her words carefully. “Do you ever feel like you’re at a crossroads? Personally. Professionally. Like, you saw this fork in the road coming from miles and miles away, but now you can’t procrastinate choosing a path anymore?”

Louis lifts his head from Eleanor’s shoulder, faces her squarely and properly, the blue of his eyes meeting the brown of hers. “Where’s this coming from, El?” he asks, voice soft but full of gravity.

Her face is unbearably sad. Her hand around his waist remains snug; her hand on her lap finds his. “I’ve been watching this song tear you up all week. I’ve been watching this job tear you up since you were a kid. I’ve seen you…struggle, to trust anyone. And I’m doing whatever I can to help, but – but what happens after you and Harry give Taylor this song on Tuesday? Will you want to keep writing original material? Is Harry going to vanish from your life, because you won’t know what to say to him anymore?”

She squeezes his hand in hers, twice, hard. “I guess what I’m trying to ask is, what do you want, Lou? What do you want your life to look like, whether or not Taylor puts your song on her album?”

His throat is raw, the woolly ache in his head giving way to shame, burning like acid in his stomach. He averts his eyes, lets them flutter shut; he listens to her breathe, a little fraught as she tries to remain calm.

“I don’t know,” he admits, so quietly it sounds like it’s coming from someone else’s mouth. “If she doesn’t take it…I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself.”

“And if she does?”

“Then…I still don’t know.” Louis opens his eyes, lets his head rest against the back of the bed. “Because Harry wrote it, it’s his song more than mine, and I can’t go through…through all of _this_ , again.”

“Writing, or Harry?”

“Both.” Louis chuckles, but the sound is humorless. “He scares the shit out of me.”

“Well, what I want,” Eleanor says, running her thumb up and down the patch of Louis’s wrist, “is for you to not be lonely. And to like what you do, instead of dread it, or feel embarrassed about it.”

Louis bites down hard on his lip, the exhaustion of the last week or so seeming to build up in him like a runaway train all at once.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “For…being unhappy.”

“I’m sorry I can’t do more.” She interlaces her fingers in his. “I want you to be all right. Tell me to move the moon, and I’ll do it, I’ll call NASA and get it done.”

“I believe that.” A ghost of a smile flickers on his lips. Hers is wide and affectionate, but doesn’t fully reach her eyes, which still shimmer with sadness. She opens her mouth, but closes it again. She blinks twice, seems to come back into herself, though she doesn’t let go of his hand.

“The song is beautiful, Lou,” she tells him. “Keep on it, don’t give up. And don’t forget you have your audition for _Teen Wolf_ on Monday. It’s at ten.”

“Okay.”

She lays her head on Louis’s shoulder, lets him wrap an arm around her and snuggle her close. She fits just right, like she always has, their breaths in sync as they watch Serena Van der Woodsen hatch her latest harebrained scheme.

Serena says something ridiculous and Eleanor giggles and Louis lets the sound coax out a smile, however fragile.

\--

Eleanor leaves three episodes later, having underestimated _Gossip Girl_ ’s addictiveness and the warmth of Louis’s bed. They clear up the wrappers from lunch and Louis opens the door for her on her way out, waves goodbye as she heads downstairs to her car. When she’s gone, it’s quiet again – and it’s getting dark, forcing Louis to turn on a few lights in the apartment. This mood – the aftermath – feels a bit like a hangover, though Louis has never been more sober.

He sits back at the piano to rewrite a cleaner version of his and Harry’s notes – and the act of watching his own hand working methodically across a clean sheet of paper sharpens his mind and his musicality. He comes back to himself – slowly, warily. His fingers draw careful, precise notes from the piano, bringing a new tentative fragility to the arrangement. He finds he likes it, this surreal dreamlike mood. It fits. He feels his way through the song without looking once at his notes. His brain seems to wake up, remember what to do, how to be. The harmonies write themselves in his head, the way they used to. He’d almost forgotten what this could feel like – how sweet, how quietly monumental.

He’s done within two hours, as the night falls in earnest, cloaks everything in darkness and forces the city to light itself electrically in gold and neon. He’s never liked the view from his window more, with silence here and the street alive below. He plays the song – he calls it “Home,” for now – twice through for himself without singing the lyrics, thinking through the instrumentation he wants.

His bones are abuzz, but Louis closes the piano lid when he’s finished, and crawls back into bed. Despite his nap in the afternoon, it doesn’t take long for him to fall asleep again.


	8. Chapter 8

 

Louis wakes up with a sharp intake of breath and a knot in his stomach – the sensation that he has slept too long, become late for something, needs to start the day right now, right this minute. But his room is still dark when he blinks his eyes open – and when he checks his phone, it’s just 5:28. Five fucking twenty-eight, when he’d set an alarm for nine o’clock. He tosses his phone to the other side of the bed in disgust.

He wants to fall back to sleep, but he’s awake for good now, his brain whirring to life and running through what’s left to do on the song today. He lies in bed for a few minutes, staring at his ceiling. He retrieves his phone, takes a brief look at Twitter, and promptly regrets it. At 5:36, he finally gives up and gets out of bed, pads into the bathroom. He takes it slow – washing his face, brushing his teeth, showering – but even with the leisurely pace, the almost-eternity it takes for him to decide to wear black skinny jeans and a red scoop-neck t-shirt, it’s still just a few minutes after six, when Louis sits down in the kitchen to eat a banana. He watches the sun rise as he makes himself a cup of tea.

He tries to pretend he doesn’t know what to do with himself, finishing his tea and a second banana, but Harry’s invitation to visit the bakery has not dislodged itself from Louis’s brain since yesterday morning. It bobs like a cork in the back of his mind, further knotting up his stomach with anticipation. It shouldn’t matter, shouldn’t linger like this – especially not with all the time they’ve spent together lately – but, well.

When Louis finishes his second cup of tea, he makes his way back to the piano, turns on the voice memos on his phone, and sings the song through with the changes he made the previous night. He saves it with the title “Demo for Harry” and shuffles off to his door to put on his Converse. He’s wearing socks this time, smirking. He’s out the door by 6:15.

The traffic is light on Sunday morning, and with the help of Google Maps, Louis makes it to the bakery relatively quickly. Knead to Know is not supposed to open for customers until eight, so the front counter is unoccupied, even though the lights are on. He knows he’s at the right place because on the glass door next to the handwritten sign listing the bakery’s hours is a prominent rainbow heart – a proclamation that this is a safe space. Louis knocks right on it, steps back.

A moment later, Gemma, clad in a white apron with her hair up in a hairnet, comes bounding out from the back – and when she sees him, her whole face breaks into a momentous grin.

“Hi, Louis!” He can hear her even from behind the door, as she unlocks it and removes her hairnet. She envelops him in a quick, tight hug. “Come in, come in.” As she lets Louis pass her, she yells over her shoulder, “Hey, Hazza, Louis is here!”

Now Harry emerges from the back of the bakery, beaming at Louis in all his cheerful dimpled glory. His hair is tied back in a bun and hairnet, and he, too, wears an apron – although his is bright pink with yellow flowers. “Welcome to Knead to Know, Lou,” he says, taking off his hairnet and opening the side panel of the counter to join Louis and Gemma in the front of the shop.

It’s a pretty space, pale yellow walls with white detailing, framed pictures of cupcakes and fresh bread hung at equally spaced intervals. There are a couple of tables – round, deep brown wood, matching chairs – across from the counter, but for the most part, the place is sparsely furnished, leaving the yellow and green checkered floor uncovered. A photograph of Harry and Gemma at the bakery’s opening, beaming in front of a small crowd, hangs over the entrance. The shelves behind the front counter are empty, presumably waiting to be filled by the day’s fresh goods.

“This is really nice,” Louis says genuinely, making Gemma and Harry beam all over again. “I like the vibe.”

“Thank you!” Gemma claps her hands together in sudden inspiration. “Hey, do you want to be our celebrity guest? We can take a picture, and maybe you can sign it!”

“Gem,” Harry cautions through his smile, but to all of their surprise, Louis’s face relaxes into a grin.

“All right, sure,” he says. “Do you have your phone?”

“Yes!” Gemma takes it out of the pocket of her jeans with flourish, crowds in next to Louis, cheek to cheek, to take a selfie. “Haz, get in here.”

Harry’s eyes catch Louis’s, biting back a smile, but he leans in on Louis’s other side without complaint. Their faces don’t touch, but the heat of Harry, his height and his breath beside Louis, have him standing a little straighter. Gemma positions the camera high enough above them to capture the yellow wallpaper, the corner of a picture frame. “Smile!” she says.

And Louis does, as she takes several photos in quick succession. He watches in fond amusement as Gemma checks the pictures, sighs in satisfaction.

“Thanks so much, Louis,” she says. “I’ll have it up the minute I get a frame!”

“Sounds good.”

“Are you hungry? I think the bread is nearly done, and I can get out some tea and biscuits if you like.”

“I had some breakfast before I left, but thank you for offering.”

Gemma’s eyes – the exact size and shape of Harry’s, though hazel instead of green – sparkle. “So, how’s the song going? Harry says it’s coming along nicely!”

“Yeah, it’s nearly done,” Louis says. “He’s been amazing with it.”

Harry’s smile is shy, directed to Louis’s knees before they lock eyes again. “Did you work on it more after I left yesterday?”

“Yeah, I did. I wanted to go to the studio tonight around seven; does that work for you?”

“No, it doesn’t, actually, because you have other plans tonight,” Gemma interjects. “You and Harry have been working  _ so  _ hard on this song and I have decided you need both sustenance and celebration. So I am having the two of you over for dinner at seven, no arguments.”

“Where’s this coming from?” Harry asks with a rather nervous laugh.

“Exactly what I said!” Gemma throws an arm around Harry’s shoulder, beams at Louis. “You’ve suddenly become a significant part of our lives, Louis; the least I can do is feed you. I make excellent mashed potatoes.”

“Mashed potatoes – my dietary Kryptonite!” Louis grins, eyes crinkling with his smile. “Well all right, then, if you’re making mashed potatoes, I can’t refuse. Thank you.”

“It won’t affect our studio time?” Harry asks.

“Nah, we can go any time. Tomorrow is fine, so long as we work fast.”

“Let’s see how long the cake takes,” Harry says. “Speaking of which – Gem, are you still okay to do the pastries? Or should I start them along with the cake?”

“I’m just minding the bread, then I can do the pastries. If you could frost the cupcakes for me quickly, that would be an enormous help.”

“They’re done?”

“In the fridge.”

“Great, I’ll do them now.”

“Thanks, Haz.” She puts her hairnet back on over her ponytail. “All right, we’d better get to it, then. Headphones in, and I’ll talk to you later.” She playfully nudges Harry’s shoulder, pats Louis’s, and returns to the back of the bakery.

“She likes to bake with music blasting,” Harry explains, as they follow her into the back. “So, to spare my ears, she wears headphones.”

“You prefer it quiet?” Louis asks.

“I like company,” Harry says with a grin. “I’m surprised, I’ll admit, but I’m glad you came. And this is definitely before noon.”

“You invited me,” Louis says simply. “And I couldn’t sleep. Lethal combination.”

Harry is all dimples and teeth, his chuckle low in his throat. “Well – this is our kitchen. This is where the magic happens.”

“Wow.” Louis blinks twice at all the chrome and silver, the industrial-sized refrigerator and freezer, the cooling racks and two ovens and the two long tables dividing the kitchen into thirds. Gemma is standing in the last third, with one of the ovens, waiting for the bread to finish; there are white earbuds in her ears, and she doesn’t even see Harry and Louis come in. The table behind her is lined with trays, some of which are filled with orderly rows of bread.

“So, I’m going to frost the cupcakes real quick, but the wedding cake is what I’m going to be working on today,” Harry explains, opening the fridge and removing an enormous tray of cupcakes in various colors.

“Are these all the cupcakes you’re going to have out in front today?” Louis asks.

“For now, yes. When we get down to the last five or ten, we make more. They don’t take long to bake, and we always have extra batter on hand, so it’s not usually an issue. Now, for frosting – I’m sure you’ve seen one of these before.” Harry produces a large piping bag from the fridge, filled with white icing.

“Ooh, yes. I watch a bit of Cake Boss.”

“I’m not quite as advanced as those guys,” Harry laughs, “but this thing is my best friend. Watch.”

He coaxes one of the cakes onto a tray, and makes quick work of a small, neat mound of vanilla. He then reaches into a drawer behind him and takes out a shaker of sprinkles, which he rains on top of the cupcake. “Voila!”

“Impressive.” Louis leans against the table, watches Harry frost the rest of the cupcakes. “You make it look so easy.”

“It’s just practice. Gems is more about recipes and quantities, and she makes the best carrot cake I’ve ever had in my life – but I like the decorating, the garnishes, that kind of thing. And I make the wedding cakes.”

“Have you made a lot of them, in the past?”

“Kind of,” Harry says. “I’ve made maybe a half dozen for the bakery. But I made cakes with my mum all through my childhood, me and Gemma both. And when she got married again, I bought a book so I could make the cake for her. It was cheaper overall for us to do it at home, and I had a blast with it.”

“Your mum remarried?” Somehow, despite Louis’s long interrogation at the diner that night, this had never come up.

“Yeah. I was about sixteen.” And, seeing the unspoken question in Louis’s eyes, Harry adds, “My biological father walked out on us when I was four.”

“I’m sorry.” Louis’s heart burns. “Do you—I mean, have you—”

“Been in contact? Kind of.” Harry’s hands are steady, making his way through each cupcake one by one. “He used to send Gemma and I cards with a few pounds in them for our birthdays and on Christmas. Gems was furious with him for everything, so she sent the envelopes back, but I…I dunno, I wanted to know my dad. Gemma thought I was mad, but I tried calling, tried to visit. The visits never really worked out; he kept canceling. I wrote a few letters. I think he remarried when I was twelve, but we weren’t invited to the wedding.”

“That’s fucked up,” Louis says before he can stop himself. He can just picture a young Harry Styles, all baby faced and curly haired, and he can’t imagine anyone ever doing anything besides adoring him—

“I’m not too fussed about it anymore, though,” Harry says, so matter-of-factly that Louis’s stomach sinks. “I love my stepdad; we get on really well, and he’s good to my mum. Gems actually took his name legally when my mum changed hers. She was Gemma Greenwood before she married Matt, her first husband.”

“But you stayed Styles.”

“It’s my name.” Harry shrugs, tops off the second-to-last cupcake. “It’s a part of me.”

“It suits you,” Louis decides. “I couldn’t picture you as a Harry Greenwood.”

“Me either,” Harry chuckles. “Here, you want to try the piping bag? You could do the last cupcake, if you want.” He offers Louis the bag, green eyes blinking.

“I would rather not destroy your beautiful cupcake, thank you,” Louis says. “I can’t be trusted with anything in a kitchen except tasting samples.”

“Really? But you watch Cake Boss!” Harry finishes the cupcake, lays the piping bag down next to the tray.

“So I know what fondant is, but that about covers it.”

“Well, let’s see if you can follow along with what I do today.” Harry moves the frosted cupcakes to the table where Gemma is dealing with the bread. When he returns, he is back in the fridge, taking out frightening quantities of frosting and chocolate mousse. He also starts pulling out cake circles, a separator, and plastic straws tied together inside a plastic bag with an orange hair elastic. He sets them out on the table, and returns to the fridge for the actual cakes – three of them, each different sizes, covered in saran wrap.

“Gemma and I made the actual cakes last night,” Harry says, “as well as the buttercream and chocolate mousse. Today is really about assembly. And the brides will come pick it up in the afternoon.”

“Aren’t you supposed to make the cake well in advance?” Louis perches himself up on the edge of the table next to the ingredients. “Like, at least a week?”

“I prefer it fresh, personally,” Harry says with a shrug. “We make everything the day before, but I do the assembly the day of.”

“But what if it falls apart? Then there’s no time to make a new one.”

“That did actually happen once.”

Louis nearly falls off the table.

“Yeah,” Harry says, amused by Louis’s horror. “The groom had insisted on carrying the cake to the car himself, and he tripped, and the whole thing went  _ splat _ ! I don’t know whose blood pressure was higher, Gemma’s or the bride’s.”

“So what did you do?”

“We had cupcake batter in the fridge, and the extra buttercream from the cake, so Gemma and I decided to make a wedding cake out of cupcakes. To this day, I don’t think we ever baked so well so quickly. We got the cupcakes in the oven, and while those cooked, we made more batter. Cupcakes don’t take long – nowhere near as long as full cakes – and I decorated them with fresh flowers and ribbons, and we managed to get the whole thing there an hour before the cake needed to be cut. By all accounts, the cupcakes were a real hit.”

“I’m astonished the bride decided to go through with the wedding at all, knowing what a bonehead her husband was,” Louis remarks. He picks up the piping bag and squirts some frosting on his finger, which he licks reverently.

“He gave us an incredibly generous tip, so we forgave him pretty quickly,” Harry says with a smirk. “Okay, so. The lovely ladies who have requested this cake were both simple and specific about what they wanted. They asked for a marble cake with chocolate mousse frosting on all layers, decorated with strawberries and red roses. I have to pick up the flowers at noon from this florist we like down the street. Our first step here is to add the mousse layer into the cake.”

“So you have to cut it up and make a cake sandwich.”

“Pretty much, yes.” Harry’s mouth twitches with amusement. “Would you like to help me cut?”

“I’ll be your moral support from here,” Louis says, squirting frosting from the piping bag directly into his mouth. “ _ Fuck _ , this is good frosting. You made it yourself?”

“I did.” The tips of Harry’s ears go pink.

“I need to bathe in it. Think you could hook me up?” Louis sucks the tip of the piping bag, licking at the frosting that spills over.

Harry is quiet for a moment – for several moments, which Louis doesn’t notice in his devouring of the frosting. But when he lowers the bag, he sees Harry’s face is oddly blank, except for a tiny crease between his eyebrows. His jaw is slack, his eyes lingering on Louis’s mouth. When he sees Louis looking at him, his lips quirk into a half-smile.

“You do realize that’s a little obscene, right?” Harry slices through his cake, transfers the top half onto a tray.

Louis examines the piping bag for a second, then bursts out laughing. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right. I have another bag, so feel free to continue violating that one.”

Harry fetches the other piping bag from the fridge, toasts it to Louis, then fills it with buttercream. Louis makes a big show of squirting an absurd amount of frosting into his mouth, and giving Harry a cheeky vanilla smile. Harry giggles so much he has to put his piping bag down for a minute, doubled over the table, his face radiant with delight.

“You are such a shit,” Harry says, his dimple practically a crater.

Louis snatches Harry’s new buttercream piping bag and squeezes it on his finger. When he puts it in his mouth, he almost goes cross-eyed from happiness.

“I changed my mind,” he announces. “I want to bathe in  _ this _ . Forever.”

“I need to make cake with it for now, though, if you don’t mind.” Harry snatches the bag back, clutches it to his chest. Unfortunately, he manages to squirt a line of frosting down his apron in the process.

“You are a distraction and a menace, Louis Tomlinson,” Harry says, pointing a finger at Louis’s face as he lays the piping bag on the table.

“Perhaps. But you only have your sublime frosting to blame.” Louis licks at his fingers again in turn, looking for dregs of left-behind frosting. “God. Can I go get a cupcake? How much is it?”

“You don’t have to pay, silly.” Harry’s smile is even sweeter than the buttercream. “Go on, then, and maybe I can maybe get this mousse on the cake in peace.”

Louis doesn’t need telling twice.

\--

By the time Louis returns with his cupcake – half in his mouth, half in his hand – and resumes his spot on the table, Harry has finished with the first cake and is working on the second. He slices the cake through the middle with confidence and precision, covers the circumference of the half-cake with a thin line of buttercream as glue, and spreads a generous layer of chocolate mousse in the middle. He seals the cake together again, and finishes the third tier in a matter of minutes. His large hands are both careful and capable, gentle and firm. His mouth settles in an unconscious pout as he begins the crumb coat, spreads the thin frosting perfectly across his cakes. Wisps of his hair come loose from the hairnet, frame the paleness of his face in mad scientist fashion. His concentration makes it so that he forgets Louis’s existence for a few minutes, his tongue peeking out of his mouth as he sweats over the details.

And Louis doesn’t mind, actually finds that he likes this, seeing Harry in his creative zone. Louis sits on the table with his ankles crossed, licking at the frosting every so often, while Harry works. He is so tall, but the table is only as high as his hip, so he’s hunched over, his back arched as he leans on his elbows; his arse sticks out prominently, Louis can’t help but notice. And, as Louis also cannot help but notice, it’s a very nice arse – small, but firm and round, giving way to long, slender legs, thighs with just the right amount of meat on them. Thighs that only benefit from the dark wash jeans Harry appears to have painted onto his body.

He’s a beautiful man; that’s simply a statement of fact. Louis knew this, objectively, from the second he appeared at Louis’s door with his camera and his apologies, asking if he could take Louis’s headshots. But somehow, this belated realization feels different now, sitting in this beautiful man’s bakery, seeing him create a coherent masterpiece out of disparate bags of sugar.

Until this moment, Louis had not given much attention to the details his eyes had initially catalogued – Harry’s slender waist, his exquisite legs, his pale skin and strawberry mouth. Since their first meeting, Harry had just been  _ Harry _ – the guy with the camera, the Hufflepuff who could rhyme “goodbye” and “pumpkin pie,” who liked pineapple on his pizza and asked as many questions as he answered, and fell in love with Sebastian Hamilton, and wrote a song like a pickaxe to Louis’s frigid heart. He has been a source of endless frustration and fascination for Louis – inexplicable, in his desire to take his time and learn Louis all the way through, like he’s something worthy and able to be dissected.

They began their relationship in a place that is usually the middle – the questions and the late-night confessions and the emotional vulnerability. They’ve done this thing backwards, in a sense. Because Louis already  _ knows _ Harry, and it’s only now, this moment, where Louis covertly appreciates Harry as the man with an arse like a summer peach, with curly hair as alluring over his shoulders as it is tied up in a bun revealing the nape of his neck. It’s only now that Louis considers, detachedly, that if they’d met in the height of Louis’s fame, Harry’s long legs and slender hips would have convinced Louis to abandon all caution and reason to lesser mortals.

It’s as though finishing the bulk of the song, the work that brought them together, has finally cleared out enough space in Louis’s brain to come to terms with how wildly attractive Harry, his Harry, happens to be.

It’s all moot, of course – an idle observation indulged too long. Harry is inarguably beautiful, but he’s Louis’s songwriting partner, their paths crossing purely by accident, and their project is very nearly complete. They might stay friends when it’s over – Louis would actually like to stay friends, if possible – but none of this  _ means _ anything. Not the secrets, not the pretty bum. None of it is going anywhere. It’s one chance encounter, and it’s coming to an end. The next time Louis visits this bakery, it’ll be to wink at Gemma and buy himself a cupcake with this frosting he can’t stop eating.

God, this frosting.

Louis is well on his way to sucking this piping bag clean, like it’s a bottle of beer instead of pure sugar. When Harry finishes his crumb coats, he glances up, sees the dramatic decrease in frosting inside the piping bag, he laughs.

“You have a real problem,” Harry notes.

“Stop judging me and tell me what you’re going to do next.” Louis petulantly puts the tip back in his mouth and chews on it.

Harry shakes his head, loosening a few more wisps of his irrepressible hair. “Actually, we get a little break now. The cake has to settle in the fridge for an hour or so before we can put it together and decorate it.”

“Really? Awesome.” Louis shoves aside the tray next to his leg to clear a space for Harry. “Come sit.”

Harry carefully carries the cakes into the fridge, where he neatly stacks them on three shelves. He sets a timer on his phone, and then joins Louis on the table, their legs and their arms brushing against each other. Louis offers Harry the piping bag, and Harry snorts, but accepts it. He puts it to his mouth – exactly where Louis had just been chewing on it – and his tongue darts out to accept some frosting.

“I still don’t understand how you can eat so much of this,” Harry says, returning the piping bag.

“Your inferior taste in dessert can’t be helped, I suppose.” Louis shrugs and resumes sucking the piping bag. “Just like your inferior taste in pizza.”

“You can insult my taste in pizza all you want, but I’m a  _ baker _ . You should trust me on dessert.” Harry’s serious face almost sells it, but his eyes sparkle too brightly.

“Well, let’s see if you can earn my trust. What’s your favorite dessert?”

“Honestly? Cheesecake.” Harry licks his lips, apparently unconsciously. “I should ask Gems if she’ll make some for the dinner tonight. I’ll tell her you like it too.”

“I do,” Louis says. “I will never say no to a good cheesecake.”

“So am I worthy of your trust, then?”

“For now, I suppose.” Louis pops off the bag with a wet sound that makes Harry smirk. “What’s your favorite thing to bake?”

He mulls this over. “Hmmm…cookies.”

“Cookies? Really?”

“Cookies are so underappreciated as an art form.” Harry inhales like he’s getting ready for a long, passionate, well-rehearsed rant. “Cookies require so much more thought and artistry than people assume. Using baking soda or baking powder, or both; the flour to sugar ratio; whether or not to sift the flour. All of these small decisions hugely affect the texture and the taste of the cookie. And if a cookie comes out too thick, or you leave it in too long, or if you don’t beat the egg the right way – well, you’re fucked. Cookies are not at all forgiving of amateurs.”

“You can buy the mix from Nestle, though,” Louis points out. “My little sisters adored those.”

“The Nestle ones come out a little greasy for my taste. Gem and I tried them for her kids a few times, but by a unanimous vote, my cookies from scratch are better.”

“I demand a demonstration,” Louis says, slamming his fist into his own thigh. “I must personally investigate this outrageous assertion, see if I can’t clear Nestle’s good name.”

“I made you cookies the first time I came over to write,” Harry reminds him.

“Yes, but that was  _ before _ I knew they were supposed to change my life,” Louis says. “And anyway, I wouldn’t consider that highly in your favor if I ate the cookies without bias and did not recall them instantly upon hearing your claim.”

“That’s a fair point.” Harry is smiling again, his face soft with it. “So, if cookies are my favorite thing to bake, what’s your favorite song that you’ve ever written?”

“Clever, how you turned it around. I respect that. You and your questions.” Louis sighs, considers. “Uh… ‘No Control,’ I’d say.”

“That was on… _ Four _ , right?”

“Very good,” Louis says, surprised.

“In the interest of full disclosure, Gemma and I were listening to her One Direction playlist while making the cake stuff yesterday, and we had a full-on dance party to that one,” Harry explains.

“Yeah?” Louis’s smile is pure sunshine, disarming both of them a little with its brilliance. Harry mirrors it, eyes like little half-moons.

“Yeah. It’s a good one.”

This warms Louis down to his core. He lays the piping bag on his lap, biting on his lip – because though One Direction had several mammoth hits during their five-year run, played on the radio ad nauseum and included on every early-two-thousands nostalgia list, the song that made the general public understand the boyband as an actual  _ band  _ was “No Control” – a song that Louis had written almost entirely himself.

He tells Harry as such, the memory vivid in his head because he’d had an inkling, even then, that he was making a real memory. He’d written the song on an unseasonably warm February while on a plane from LA to Sydney for the first date of their second world tour. Zayn and Niall were already on location, so it was just Liam and Louis, a whole long, awkward, jet-lagged night ahead of them. Louis convinced his bodyguard, Alberto, to uncork a bottle of wine, while he and Liam complained about their manager-negotiated business deals masquerading as real relationships. Louis had listened to Liam rail about his then-girlfriend Danielle, hummed in sympathy, offered several refills of his wine glass.

And when Liam was done (and a little buzzed), the two of them unearthed some champagne, and passed it between them, talking about what it might be like to be in a genuine, consensual relationship. They painted the mystical scenario for themselves – love! companionship! kisses that didn’t leave their dicks flaccid! – and Louis had that Songwriting Feeling. Words and notes and key changes danced in his mind like shadows coming into view. And when Liam dozed off, drunk and disgruntled, Louis got out his pen and scribbled relentlessly until the plane touched down in Sydney.

And it was  _ good _ , a genuinely good song. And Louis knew it. Liam switched a few words around, and rewrote the bridge to the version later on the album, but the song was Louis’s. It was the one time what he felt and what he wanted – sex, exuberance, innocence, lust – translated cooperatively into music. It was a vision of love that was mischievous and crass and poetic all at once.

Things worked out like a dream. Louis snatched lead vocals over Simon’s protestations, and the critics lapped up the song when it was released, calling it a “bold and welcome step forward” – and during the last stormy months of the band’s existence, it was hailed as the best reason to take One Direction seriously. Louis devoured the praise like a hungry stray, excited to be singled out in this way when Zayn or Liam’s voices so rarely left him space to shine.

His voice mattered the most it ever had, on that four-minute track. It was no doubt one of his favorite accomplishments.

“I think that’s why people like that song so much,” Harry says thoughtfully, helping himself to a little frosting from the piping bag. “Your energy was audible. Like, palpable.” He pauses, licking his fingers. “So if it’s your favorite song, why don’t you perform it when you do gigs? You didn’t do it at Adventureland?”

It’s a harmless enough question, a logical follow-up to observable phenomena, but Louis’s gut tightens anyway. The old impulse – shut down, deny, deflect – threatens to commandeer his tongue. He’s already said too much as it is. But Harry’s eyes are so green, fixed upon him – large, wide, a little nervous but determined – and so, with difficulty, Louis swallows down the instinct.

“I, uh…I don’t love what I’m doing now,” he says. “And I don’t want to bring that really good memory into a really – well, mediocre present.”

“I suppose that makes sense.” Louis can’t tell whether Harry means to or not, but their ankles touch, dangling below the table’s surface.

“So now I’m curious,” Louis says, keeping his voice light, “what’s  _ your  _ favorite One Direction song?”

Harry grins. “That’s a difficult question!”

“Okay, top five, then.”

“Ummmm… ‘Fireproof,’ ‘Girl Almighty,’ ‘Moments’ – ‘What Makes You Beautiful,’ of course—”

Louis makes a strangled sound, mimes puking. “ _ No _ . No, you can’t like ‘What Makes You Beautiful.’ Take it back, please.”

“But I  _ love  _ it!” And, fuck him, he really does; his face radiates with it, his eyes shining. “ _ You’re insecure, don’t know what for _ —”

“I will forcibly remove you from your own bakery,” Louis threatens, clapping a hand over Harry’s mouth. It takes him a beat to realize what he’s done, but then it’s too late, so he holds his ground. Harry blinks at him over his fingers; his mouth is open on Louis’s palm, presumably in surprise.

But, without hesitation, Harry licks Louis’s hand, his warm tongue leaving a trail of saliva between his fingers, and Louis retracts his hand immediately. Beaming, Harry begins again—“ _ Everyone else in the room can see it, everyone else but you-ou— _ ”

So Louis grabs one of the empty trays next to him and proceeds to whack Harry with it, cackling maniacally. Harry howls, trying to shield himself from Louis’s wrath, but he’s relentless, wriggling away in order to get a better angle.

“If I tell you something embarrassing,” Harry manages between gasps, trying to ward the tray away, “will you stop and promise not to laugh at me?”

“I can’t guarantee it,” Louis says, breathless, putting the tray down and scooting back beside Harry, “but try me.”

“Okay.” Harry takes a few gulps of air, then says, “I actually performed a One Direction song at my high school talent show in my senior year.”

As if on cue, Louis explodes with laughter.

“Hey, no laughing!” Harry insists, even as he giggles and whacks Louis half-heartedly with the tray.

“Which song was it?” Louis asks.

“‘Does He Know,’” Harry says. “It was, like – like an inside joke, with my friends? Anyone who ever spent any amount of time at my house knew how much Gemma liked One Direction, and she sort of got everyone into it a little bit. Like, it was cool to joke about One Direction and sing the words and have a favorite member and stuff. And ‘Does He Know’ was one of my favorites, and my girlfriend at the time, Carly, dared me to perform it at the talent show. Everyone would get a kick out of it, since our school was so small and everyone knew about me and Gemma and One Direction. And I was trying to impress her, so I did. I sang it at the show, and since the show was in the spring, at the end of it I held up a sign asking Carly to go to prom with me.”

Louis whistles. “Ballsy. I like it. Did she go with you?”

“Yeah, she did. She thought it was the funniest thing.”

“She was your first time, you said.”

Harry nods. “Yeah, she was.”

Louis tries to picture it – Harry, ten years younger, trying to impress a girl with a song that Niall and Liam had written together. Harry, going with a girl to prom like a normal person, wearing some hideous corsage on his wrist, smiling obediently for cheesy pictures with the woman he trusted enough to have sex with first. Louis couldn’t even picture a prom because he hadn’t gone to his own: he was in the band at seventeen, and on his prom night, he was in the studio with his bandmates recording “What Makes You Beautiful.”

So he turns to Harry, and says, “I think you need to perform ‘Does He Know’ for me now.”

“What? No!” Harry appears both entertained and horrified.

“Yes! It’s only fair, after you’ve put this image in my head. And anyway, I’ve sung for you before!”

“Yeah, and five hundred of our closest friends,” Harry says with a snort.

“Okay, then I’ll sing you something. Anything, One Direction or otherwise.”

Harry eyes him suspiciously. “You promise?”

“Yes.” Louis holds out his pinkie finger for Harry to shake.

Harry wavers, but only for a second. He locks his pinkie with Louis’s, and says, “You drive a hard bargain, but all right.”

“Hooray!”

“But first, I do need to check you for any recording devices.” Harry’s eyes sparkle. “You know, for security purposes.”

“Fair. Do your worst.”

Louis leaves his phone visible on the table and hops off the table, squares his feet shoulder-width apart, holds his arms out like it’s airport security. Harry nods his approval and stands too, gives Louis a gentle pat-down, his hands dancing across Louis’s body – down his arms, his waist, his legs, his back. An inexplicable shower of chills cascades down his spine as Harry finishes up with the backs of his thighs. But Harry smiles, steps back, allows Louis to sit back on the table.

“Do you have the track on your phone?” he asks. “Because I won’t remember the words otherwise.”

“Okay. There.”

Louis locates the song in his library, and Harry picks up the near-empty piping bag, clears his throat. He’s in a power pop stance, pink flowery apron and hairnet all, the bag poised at his mouth like a microphone. When the opening notes begin, he doesn’t hold back, belting out the notes so loudly into the piping bag that even Gemma – who, some time in the middle of their shenanigans, moved to the front of the store to deal with customers – pokes her head in to wonder what’s going on. Harry isn’t quite finished with the song yet, but the bewildered expression on Gemma’s face is enough for Harry and Louis to double over with laughter and not stop. She rolls her eyes playfully, and returns to the front, but Louis lies back on the table, his stomach heaving up and down with his giggles, and Harry grips the table, doubled over with laughter. It takes a couple of minutes for them to find their composure.

And, it is as they regain their breath that Harry’s phone alarm goes off, indicating that it’s time for the cakes to be frosted.

“You need to stay quiet now while I do this, otherwise I am going to fuck something up and our clients will cry,” Harry warns Louis, though he’s smiling.

Louis squirts a line of buttercream across his lower lip. “My lips are sealed,” he says, closing his mouth with gusto.

Harry groans, hits his forehead against the fridge he was about to open, and has to stand still for a full thirty seconds with shaking shoulders before his hands are steady enough to retrieve the cakes.

\--

“I really have no idea how you have both a tiny waist and a functioning digestive system, working here everyday,” Louis groans from the floor some time later.

“Well, I don’t eat almost a full piping bag of frosting, for a start,” Harry observes, painstakingly evening out the frosting on the second tier.

“But. It’s frosting. And it’s so delicious.” Louis groans again, clutching his stomach.

“It’ll pass,” Harry assures him, taking his eyes off the cake long enough to give Louis a sympathetic smirk.

Louis muffles a wail in his hands and curls up in fetal position. “Death is imminent.”

“You are such a drama queen. And you are going to ruin my border.”

“You should have a sign on the door warning against children eating your cupcakes,” Louis says. “Frosting that powerful and addictive is practically a drug. My youngest siblings would go wild.”

“You have – four? Five?” Harry is still frosting, but his pace slows as he listens.

“Six, actually.”

“Wow. You’re the oldest?”

“Mhmm.” Louis is on his back again, fervently regretting that humankind ever found a way to concentrate so much sugar into such a beautiful substance. “Me, then Lottie – well, Charlotte – and Fizzy, who’s Felicite. Then Daisy and Phoebe, who are twins, and Doris and Ernest, who are also twins.”

“Two sets of twins?” Harry whistles low. “Your mother is a brave woman.”

“Well, we’re all pretty spaced out. I’m five years older than Lottie, Fizzy came a year and a half after, Daisy and Phoebe were born when I was nine, and Doris and Ernie weren’t born until I was in the band. They’re ten now.”

“How was that for them, having such a famous brother?”

“It was weird for Lottie and Fizzy, because they were old enough to understand what was happening at the time. Daisy and Phoebe, we managed to protect from the worst of it. Doris and Ernie barely know me, because I’ve lived in the States for most of their lives and One Direction was over before they were in school.”

“You said Lottie lives in New York, but the rest of them are in England?”

“Yeah, Doncaster. My mum’s there with them and my stepdad.”

“Can I ask about that, or is it off-limits?” Harry stares determinedly at his cake rather than at Louis, who goes still on the floor.

He’s about to say no, that’s off-limits, that’s definitely off-limits – because the last time Louis talked about his parental situation was during bonding night with the lads the first year of the band, because it was never something he relished thinking about, let alone speaking of. The right words fizz up to his lips, prepared to spill and change the subject.

But somehow, lying on the ground with his aching stomach, awake so early in the morning with the smell of baked goods all around him, this beautiful man standing so close by with his beautiful legs, Louis finds himself…tired. The usual defense mechanisms appear to have abandoned their posts, left him uninterested in hostile warfare. Different words fizz up instead, words he hasn’t used in many years but which come more easily, more painlessly, than he expected.

“It’s all ancient history, but – well, the stepdad she’s married to now is not my first stepdad.” Louis takes a breath, focuses on the chrome of the table leg, the fluorescent light making shadows out of his moving hands. “My biological father, uh…my mum had me when she was sixteen. Dropped out of high school, wanted to marry the guy, but he fucked off when I was barely two months old. So she struggled along awhile, until she met my first stepdad when I was two. Married him, and changed my name – he’s Tomlinson, not my biological father. Mark was my dad until I was about eleven, and my mum had Lottie, Fizzy, Daisy and Phoebe with him. Then he and my mum divorced, because she found out he was cheating on her. And she swore off men by that point, focused on keeping the bunch of us fed and out of trouble, and those were some difficult years. We never had enough money, and she wouldn’t let me work because she needed me to watch my sisters. She met my current stepdad around the time I got my record deal, and…well, he’s been around ever since. Doris and Ernie have had a very different childhood than the rest of us.”

Harry goes quiet, absorbing this. When he speaks again, still working his buttercream magic, his voice is gentle. “What do you think you’d be doing now, if you were never in One Direction?”

Louis exhales sharply, long and bemused. “God. I don’t know.”

“No?”

“I mean. I’d probably have worked odd jobs all through my twenties in Donny, trying to help my mum out.”

“What, you didn’t ever want to be a doctor or a firefighter or a lawyer or something?” Harry asks playfully.

“Might’ve been a teacher, maybe,” Louis muses. “Not that I was great at school as a kid, but. For the sake of irony.”

“What would you have taught?”

“Drama, probably.”

“You are dramatic,” Harry concedes.

“I’d drink to that. You know, if my intestines weren’t on fire.”

“I’d feel sorrier for you if I didn’t see this coming,” Harry says, a half-smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “Honestly, Louis, how did you see this ending for yourself?”

“I didn’t, is the point.” He flings his arm across his face, buries his nose in the crook of his elbow. “Couldn’t get me some ginger ale, or Tums, or a stomach implant or something, could you?”

“Believe it or not, I don’t usually need to keep that stuff around here.” Harry puts his buttercream piping bag down, comes closer to tower over Louis, giving him an inordinate view of Harry’s crotch. “Is it really bad? There’s a CVS nearby.”

“No, no. Could I just get water then, please?”

“Sure.”

Harry disappears to the other side of the kitchen, fills a cup with tap water. When he returns, he sits on the floor beside Louis, watches him drink.

“I’m nearly done with the frosting, and then I have to put it in the fridge for a little while before finishing touches,” Harry says. “Give me a few minutes?”

Louis nods, setting the water cup down beside him and returning his nose to his elbow. Harry gets back on his feet, picks up the piping bag. He works in silence for a bit, as Louis breathes in and out, deeply regrets his life decisions. He feels Harry glancing down at him from time to time, even with his eyes shut.   The weight of his gaze is comfortable, somehow. Harry’s general presence, and his sweet-scented bakery, all feel too comfortable, even from the floor with a stomachache. He wonders vaguely what time it is, until he hears Harry open and close the fridge, and walk towards him. Louis peers over his arm to see Harry, smile like sunshine, crouched low so their sightlines are even.

“Shall I show you where the toilets are?” Harry asks serenely. His dimple is too many kinds of ridiculous to count, his eyes too bright and mischievous.

Louis weighs his options, but it doesn’t take him long to come to a decision. He nods pitifully, and lets Harry help him to his feet, lead him away in shame and defeat.

\--

He feels better, though, after the trip – less like his internal organs are dying, anyway. He emerges back into the kitchen to find Harry fussing over sugar flowers, which are about to go into the refrigerator to set. Harry’s tongue is peeking up and out again with concentration, his back hunched over the enormous tray full of flowers as his long fingers do their delicate work. Louis almost wants to come up from behind and startle him, dig his chin into Harry’s shoulder so that he squawks – but he doesn’t, because Harry has a good two inches on him, and his work shouldn’t get ruined, and anyway, they’re just…not like that. The casual hugs and kisses and chins-on-shoulders. They don’t do that.

So, instead, Louis settles for clearing his throat to indicate his presence, and returns to his seat on top of the table next to Harry. Harry’s smile is goofy and sweet, almost shy.

“How are you?” he asks.

“Okay. Can call off the stomach implant, I think.”

“Marvelous.” Harry puts down the sugar and offers Louis a high-five. His hand is cold, but his high-five is confident. “I am making decorations while the cake sets in the fridge.”

“When will the cake be ready?”

“About forty-five minutes, probably. It’s very nearly done; it just needs the fresh flowers, the beads, and ribbons for the top and bottom layers. I’m making flowers now with gumpaste.”

“Why the gumpaste flowers if you have the fresh flowers?”

“These are for the pastries that Gemma is making.”

“I see.” Louis watches Harry patiently shape his flowers on the tray, the endless orderly rows, all of them in different colors. “Do you just keep all these colors and stuff on hand?”

“Gem does, yeah. Especially now, because wedding season is gearing up soon, and she likes us to be prepared. Sugar beads, multi-colored gumpaste, the works.”

“It’s a lot of effort for something that’s just going to get eaten by a horde of hungry guests,” Louis observes.

“Well, you watch  _ Food Network _ , you know how it goes.” One of Harry’s flowers threatens to break, but he patiently negotiates it back to health. “Cooking and baking is edible art; we foodies take it seriously.”

“If I ever got married, I wouldn’t bother with any of this,” Louis says. “I’d elope. Fuck off to Brazil, or Argentina maybe, and do a spectacular honeymoon instead of wasting all the money on the wedding.”

“You want to get married?” Harry arches his eyebrows in genuine surprise; Louis goes instantly pink.

“I mean,  _ if  _ I ever got married. Hypothetically. Or, you know. Met someone who wanted to marry me. Hypothetically.”

“I’m not doubting your marriageability, Lou,” Harry hastens to explain, cheeks reddening too. “It’s just that you told me you weren’t really into casual sex or relationships these days, so I hadn’t—marriage is a whole other thing—”

“Relax. I get it.” Louis is still a little flushed, and Harry is still a little shame-faced. “I only meant that if for whatever reason, marriage became a conversation I had with someone, I would try to avoid a wedding.”

“Oh, don’t deprive your mother of a wedding. She would be so sad.”

“I have a long parade of siblings who can provide my mother a wedding, even grandchildren,” Louis notes. “Lottie already has! And Fizzy is pretty serious about her boyfriend right now. My mother won’t want for weddings.”

“Yes, but she’ll want for  _ your  _ wedding, and it would be terrible of you to take it away from her,” Harry insists. “I’ll make your cake for you. I’ll do it on a discount.”

“How kind.”

“I  _ will _ !” Harry returns to his sugar flowers, the tips of his ears stubbornly pink.

“Well, I would first need to find a partner, and I haven’t even gotten close yet, so.”

Louis is tempted to steal a flower, just to see how it tastes, but thinks better of it after his frosting fiasco. Harry, seeming to sense this, edges the tray slightly away from Louis, but his expression is thoughtful.

“Who was your first kiss, Lou?” he asks.

Louis’s eyes narrow, his heart suddenly ice and suspicion. “Why do you want to know?”

Harry shoots him an irritated look, all furrowed brow and slightly pouty lower lip, but Louis just raises his eyebrows in expectation.

“You never give anything away freely, do you,” Harry observes, his tone oddly colorless.

“Not if I can help it.” He refuses to stand down – in fact, raises his chin a little, as outwardly defiant as he is inwardly trembling.

“Fine. I want to know because you asked me at the diner, and so I think it’s only fair I get to ask you now.”

“You  _ offered _ to answer all my questions,” Louis points out.

“Yes, because I was trying to talk to you. Have a conversation. You know, that thing people do when they’re getting to know each other.” A wry smile plays on Harry’s lips. “You don’t  _ have  _ to answer, I suppose, but. We’ve been through enough together, haven’t we?”

There is something stormy and a little fragile brewing in the deep blue of Louis’s eyes. He averts his gaze quickly, before he can give himself away. That exhaustion from before, the desire to lay down and crack open his ribcage and leave his insides spilling open for anyone to take, returns like a strong tide of ice water, claiming the sand wall of his defenses. He decides to lie down on the table, blink up at the fluorescent lights, let Harry stare at his knees instead of his heart bleeding through his sleeve.

“I don’t know why you care so much,” Louis tells the ceiling. “Will you ever tire of asking me personal questions, Curly? Will I ever finally bore you?” He tries to keep his tone light, but he still sounds tense, too brittle.

“Frankly? Probably never.” Harry hesitates, like he’s about to lie down on the table next to Louis, but instead he leans back against it, his perfect round bum pressing against the edge of the steel, his thighs a breath away from Louis’s own. “I don’t know why you’re so afraid to answer. You can trust me.”

“I do trust you.” It tumbles out of him before he can stop it.

Harry doesn’t say a word, but his silence is somehow tender. Tender enough that Louis sighs, puts a hand to his stomach, which aches differently now than before, and he tells the ceiling, “My first kiss was this girl Hannah, from school. She was a mate, but I knew she wanted to be more. And we had laughs together, I liked her, so when she leaned in to kiss me one day after drama practice, I let her. And it was fine. And when it was finished, I wondered why so many songs and so many movies were written for… _ that _ . In that sense, it was underwhelming.”

“Who was the first boy you kissed?” Harry’s tone is petal soft.

“It shouldn’t even count as a first kiss.” Louis closes his eyes when the light gets too bright. “It was theft, more like. Me, in a bathroom with some guy at a party – when I was in the band – and all he wanted was to suck my cock and leave, but I made him kiss me. Just once, briefly. Then he went back down on me and I was so inexperienced and wound up that I still came a second and a half later. I don’t remember his face, let alone his name.”

“I hope you’ve had better kisses since then.”

“Yeah, I’d say I have.” Louis lets himself smile, eyes still closed. “Not many, granted. I’m picky, even with my one night stands.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” The warmth in Harry’s voice makes him sound closer than he is. “You strike me as a ‘do it once, do it right’ type of person.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I’ve spent the last week with you, watching you obsess over getting this song perfect. I imagine you’re the same when it comes to relationships.”

“That’s…very optimistic, and more generous than I deserve.” Louis elbows himself back up into a sitting position, rolling his eyes at Harry despite the pink in his cheeks.

“I’m the same way,” Harry offers with a shrug. His ears are red. “I, um. I’d rather not waste my time, you know?”

“Have you dated a lot?”

“Less than you’d think,” Harry says. “Carly was probably my longest relationship. I had a girlfriend in uni for a couple of months, which fizzled out. I hooked up with several guys in school and after, but none of them really worked out either. Then, uh…it was Sebastian.” He clears his throat, stares down at his shoes. “I was quite serious about him. Naïve, like he said.”

Louis’s heart hurts more than he’d anticipated. He almost wants to apologize – express how sorry he is that lovely, generous Harry was betrayed by some asshole – but instead, he blurts out, “Would it be terrible if I kind of want to read this book, prove to you how wrong it is now that I know you?”

Harry’s laugh is sweet, but hollow. “I appreciate the sentiment, really. But, um. I don’t think it’s my place to grant or deny you permission to read the book. It’s out there in the world, millions of people have read it and millions of people are going to watch it in movie form when it comes out, so. It’s public knowledge.”

“For everyone else, yeah, it’s public knowledge. But for us, it’s something personal to you, and I should ask before invading your privacy.”

Harry looks up now, his green eyes a little watery. He seems to want to play with his hair, run a hand through his curls, but with his hair in the hairnet, all he can do is slip the hair-tie off his wrist, twist it around and around his long fingers to give them something to do.

“If I’d known that’s how you understood privacy, I would never have Googled you or read your Wikipedia page, Louis,” Harry says.

“It doesn’t matter now.” And it doesn’t, honestly. “You asked me at the diner what the weirdest part of being famous was, and I didn’t answer you then because this is it – not knowing how to draw the boundaries of public and private with people I come in contact with. Because the public knows so many half-truths about me and I don’t know where to begin explaining what is and isn’t real. Sometimes  _ I’m _ not even sure what is or isn’t real anymore.”

“Was it like that for your bandmates too?” Again, Harry’s voice – so soft and so gentle. Louis lets it act as a salve to his throat, raw with long-buried secrets.

“Kind of. Not in the same way, though.” Louis sighs. “They all had to spend time with women they weren’t interested in dating. Niall and Zayn had the revolving door of models, while Liam was stuck with Danielle for years. That was weird for them. But for me, like. Whenever the press caught wind of gay rumors, they kept saying that was scandalous, disgusting, horrifying – and the more they said say it, the easier it was to believe. And when they called me irresponsible, stupid, trashy for being out drinking all the time – well, I  _ was  _ out drinking all the time, so they must’ve been right about that too.”

He feels so small just thinking about it; he stares down at his feet, dangling off the table. “It got hard to tell where the truth ended and the lie began, or if I became a lie instead of a person, or if the lies were true all along. I couldn’t see boundaries anymore. I…lost track of myself. And they didn’t, because all they had to do was take a few pictures and the rest of their time, the rest of themselves, was all for them.”

“Are you still in touch with them? What are they up to now? I mean, besides Liam, who’s on tour.”

Louis sighs. “I, uh…I really wouldn’t know what Niall and Zayn are up to. The average Yahoo entertainment section reader probably knows more than I do. It’s…been awhile.”

Harry is astonished. “Really?”

Louis chews nervously on his lower lip, letting his feet kick back and forward like a restless pendulum. “Shouldn’t we get your cake out of the fridge? Doesn’t that need decorations for an afternoon pickup?”

“Yes, I was just going to get it in a minute, but—Louis, when was the last time you spoke to your bandmates?” Harry fetches the cakes from the fridge one by one, sets them down gently on the table in a row, his expression wide-eyed and expectant.

“I mean, I know the basics.” Louis hands Harry the piping bag of buttercream, as Harry opens a plastic baggie full of pearly white sugar beads. “Zayn is an artist, has gallery showings every so often. He also models occasionally, for which I’m sure the fashion world sacrifices lambs to the gods in thanks, because Zayn’s face could sell barbeque to a cow. And I’m not so sure about Niall, but I’m pretty sure he’s out sound-mixing and producing in L.A.”

“When was the last time you spoke to them, though?” Harry asks. He’s creating a crisscross pattern of beads around the bottom cake with the buttercream as glue, his eyes fixed on his work but his attention clearly focused on Louis.

“Er…when the band ended.” Louis is grateful they don’t have to make eye contact for this. “It’s just—there was nothing left to say, you know? I fucked up, and that was that.”

“A band of four people broke up. You couldn’t be the only one at fault.” The words are so practical out of Harry’s mouth, his voice as steady as his fingers, placing the sugar beads on the cake so effortlessly.

“You, uh…you didn’t see Liam, the last time.” Louis crosses his ankles, down at his feet. “It was on me. I did that, no one else.”

“But Lou—”

“It’s done.” Louis’s tone is firm, even as his hands quiver, hold tightly to the edge of the table. “It’s in the past, it was eight years ago. Everyone’s moved on.”

“Not you.” Harry lays down the buttercream and the beads, his hands on the hips of his flowery apron. “You’re still…haunted, by everything that happened. You carry this sadness around with you everywhere, like you’re still there in that fight with Liam. You never forgave yourself for it. You never  _ dealt  _ with it.”

Louis’s heart is a tight coil of iron, beating too quickly. His blood runs hot, rushes to his ears. It’s like some vein has been nicked, flooding him with red heat. Too far, this is too far.

“Curly, your only obligation to me was to write this song, and we are nearly done with that duty now, so you don’t have to—” He waves his hands around, gestures short and sharp. Harry’s eyes narrow.

“Have to what, exactly?”

“Fix me.” Louis’s hands fall to his thighs with a slap like thunder.

Harry’s mouth opens, like he’s going to retort angrily – but instead he straightens from his cake-decorating hunch, buries his face in his hands and sighs heavily. The fight seems to leak out of him like melted ice cream. When he speaks, it’s slow, flat.

“I’m sorry, if I crossed a line.” He pauses. “You’re a minefield, you know.”

Louis bites down hard on his lower lip, chest rising and falling as he breathes out of his nose. “If it makes you feel any better, pretty much everyone else would’ve already been blown to bits by now.” His tone is terse – delicate.

“That doesn’t make me feel better. Not at all.” Harry pulls up a stool from the other end of the long table, brings it to where he was standing. It scrapes against the floor, seems to scrape against Louis’s resolve. Harry sits, back hunched and shoulders curled inward, expression troubled.

He is quiet for a minute, staring down at his knees. But when he speaks, his gaze finds Louis’s immediately, his eyes almost breathtakingly clear and green. His question is simultaneously piercing and mundane, basic and fiercely intimate: “Louis, have you ever actually dated before?”

Fear instantly grips Louis’s stomach. “What do you mean?”

“I just— you consider marriage a pipe dream, your engagement was faked for the media, all your girlfriends were just women you were photographed next to. And you have such a hard time talking about yourself, or the people that you love, or what you want in your life. So I am trying to figure out – have you ever loved a stranger enough to share yourself with them? Have you ever loved anyone for real?”

Holding Harry’s gaze when he is like this is like staring directly into the sun. The seriousness of him, the intensity of his eyes and his voice and his questions, feels as though Louis is being stripped to barebones, to the smallest indivisible core of his being, right here in this bakery next to a half-finished wedding cake. It’s as though the oxygen has been sucked out of the room, the universe shrinking down to this – to Louis, the heat in his ears, the blood in his heart, to Harry, who is waiting for an answer.

“I have loved for real.” Louis swallows, conjures the words with difficulty. “I love El, probably as much as I’ve ever loved anyone. I loved my bandmates. I love my family. They were – they are – the realest things in my life.”

“But you don’t talk to your bandmates. You try to hold your family at arm's length, afraid they’re disappointed in you. You never felt like it was okay to date who you wanted to date.”

“But I did love for real. I  _ do  _ love for real.” He lets go of the table, wraps his arms loosely around his middle. “I know I’m a minefield, but no one would like the insinuation that their love isn’t real.”

Harry’s eyes flicker shut for a moment. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, that came out badly.”

“Yeah. A bit.” Louis exhales slowly, shakily.

“I meant—I meant that for someone who has so much to offer, you seem…lonely.” Harry sighs too – short, tired. “You seem to want to talk yourself out of relationships that mean something to you. Your past seems to weigh you down so much.”

“El says that my coping mechanisms are not what the American Psychological Association considers healthy.” Despite himself, he snickers. “But, to answer your question, no, I don’t actually date. And it’s because I’ve spent about half my life de facto married to Eleanor, because she was there during all the things I never want to talk about, and—and El’s been divorced twice, her job is all about angles and image and going to lots of parties with shallow people she doesn’t trust, and so we are what we have. We two, we keep each other sane. Anything else, anything more, I just…I don’t know how to want it.”

He holds his inhale for a moment, like a climax. “And now I’ve told you more than I’ve told anyone. So, I am where I am, and I am who I am, and – and I won’t have you judge me for it.”

Harry looks truly gobsmacked at that; he seems to lurch forward on his stool, like he wants to fly up and correct him. “I’m not judging you, Lou, not at all. I – I’m so sorry if it sounds like I am. I—I am so honored and grateful that you’ve told me as much as you have. It hasn’t been easy on you, I know. I just—” He tucks stray wisps of his hair behind his ears, more out of nerves than necessity. “We haven’t known each other a long time, so this might sound weird to you, but…but I care about you, and I want you to be happy. And I want you to have more love in your life than you even know what to do with.”

Louis’s heart is still beating too much, too painfully fast, but he believes Harry. He sees the sincerity in Harry’s face, and believes it. It makes him blush, makes it hard to keep looking at him – but he does. He does. And Harry’s smile slowly comes back to life, as the suspicion in Louis’s expression softens.

Harry’s mouth opens, like he wants to say something else – but it is at this crucial juncture that Gemma Bryant pops back into the kitchen, her headphones tangled up in her hand, beaming like sunshine. “Hey, you two! How is the cake coming?”

“Gem.” Harry clears his throat, schools his expression into something more neutral. “Hi. It’s good. We’re good.”

Gemma’s eyes fall to the three cakes, the piping bag, the half-finished sugar bead pattern. “Haz, you really need to get a move on with this cake. Melanie just called, said she’ll be here in three hours. And it’s noon, so you need to go get the flowers from Mike.”

“Fuck.” Harry glances up at the clock, which does indeed indicate that it’s a few minutes past twelve. His eyes snap right back to Louis, a little worried.

“It’s not Harry’s fault, it’s mine. I’ve been a big distraction.” Louis hops off the table with as much dignity as he can muster. “And I, um. I actually had plans to meet Eleanor for lunch today, so I’ll go, and Harry, you can finish the cake.”

Harry pouts, his brows knitted together in a deep frown. “No, Lou—you don’t have to leave—”

“I do, actually.” Louis offers a small smile, fragile but genuine. “We both have places we need to be – and I’ll see you tonight at dinner, right?”

Relief lights Harry’s face from the inside out. “Yes. Dinner. Seven o’clock?”

“Seven o’clock. Mashed potatoes. Can’t miss them.” Louis now smiles at Gemma, the mask of his fan service smile smoothing the tension around his mouth. “Just have Harry text me your address and I’ll see you then.”

“Sounds good, I can’t wait!” Gemma pulls him in for a hug, easy and snug. “Thanks for coming by today, and we’ll see you tonight!”

“Bye.” Louis directs this one to Harry, who despite his lumbering height looks small, sitting on his stool, watching Louis go. Harry waves, his smile sadder.

“Bye, Louis.” He’s barely audible, as Gemma shows Louis to the front of the shop, offers him a cupcake for the road.

Louis thanks her sincerely, but doesn’t take it.

\--

He doesn’t actually have plans to see Eleanor. He has no intention of calling her, either. He goes straight to his favorite Chinese takeout place for food therapy and takes a big bag to his apartment, where he eats in bed, watching  _ Gossip Girl _ on Netflix from the episode he and Eleanor had left off on. He’s in a wallowing, late-night kind of mood, even though the sun is out and it’s a beautiful spring day. He draws his curtains and settles in, stuffing his face and enjoying the way Blair’s dress hugs her body and trying to understand what exactly is churning right below the surface of his skin, this hurricane washing through his body.

He knows Harry means well, his intentions purer than anyone’s. And Louis rather likes Harry – more than he wanted to, more than he’d ever expected. But Louis was being serious when he told Eleanor that Harry scared the shit out of him – because Harry did. He really, really  _ does _ . And Louis still feels weightless and wrung out, like he’s left too much of himself on the floor of Harry’s bakery and come home bereft. Not even Chinese food, or the incomparable Blair Waldorf, can fill that void.

He isn’t used to this – to breaking off pieces of himself and pressing them into the palm of someone who hasn’t known him his whole life. He hasn’t dated, hasn’t confided in friends – purposely hasn’t forced himself into this position. He has lived quietly since the explosive noise of One Direction, guarding all the entryways into himself with hawkish vigilance. He prefers it that way – a heart on ice, protected. It still hurt sometimes, but less. He’s always opted for the option that hurts less.

But Harry doesn’t. And that’s what is so confusing and so terrifying about him – the way that he lives in full technicolor, rather than a carefully muted palette of gray. He asks too many questions, and follows through for answers. He invests himself in other people like it costs him nothing, like he will never run out of pieces of himself to give. He has invested himself in Louis – writing the song, inviting him to the bakery, spending hours with Louis just talking, and laughing, and sometimes demanding more from Louis than anyone has ever asked of him.

And Louis can’t even resent Harry for it, because Harry would reciprocate without hesitation.  _ Has _ reciprocated, and continues to do so. Harry, who was publicly humiliated by a man who made a career off his heartbreak, still took all night and wrote a song about coming home. He is green eyes and big mouth and steadiness; he is long legs and chocolate curls and, against all odds, a lighthouse in the night. He is a break from the monotony of the dark sea. He is so much more than Louis bargained for.

And that’s why he’s going to dinner tonight, why he couldn’t beg off even though he would have been within his rights to. Louis is a little bit addicted to the challenge that Harry offers – to the way it is so hard to answer Harry’s questions, yet it’s even harder to get the questions out of his head. The time to turn back, to keep himself on ice, passed long ago, before Louis even knew to look for it, and so he is stumbling forward down this uncertain road, thawed and bloody.

He doesn’t know where he’s going. He doesn’t know what will happen when they finish recording the song – whether they’ll meet up for coffee once in awhile to reminisce about the week they unzipped themselves and spilled the contents into each other’s outstretched hands, or whether they go their separate ways and all Louis will do is remember this, keep it safe in the treasure-trove of memories he’s collected over the years.

He doesn’t know. All he has right now is the promise of tonight, of dinner with Harry and Gemma’s family, before the audition on Monday and a night in the studio preparing the demo. So he slurps his lo mein, watches Chuck Bass hatch a scheme, and waits – wonders.


	9. Chapter 9

 

Louis is fresh out of the shower and choosing between his navy blue scoop neck or his green button-down for dinner when Eleanor calls, asking if he wants to run lines for the audition tomorrow.

“I know it’s not a hefty script or anything, but I got a few more from a friend of a friend, and I thought we could make a night of it,” she says. “If you come over, there’s homemade spaghetti in it for you.”

“That’s truly tempting, but – and I suggest you sit down for this one – I actually have plans tonight.” Louis decides on green and tosses the blue shirt to the floor.

“ _Plans_ ?” Eleanor seems genuinely astounded. “Are they spending-time-with-other-humans plans, or getting-buzzed-in-boxers-watching- _Gossip-Girl_ plans?”

“The first one.” He puts the phone on speaker and throws it on his bed so he can put his shirt on.

“You were right, I should have been sitting down,” Eleanor says, her voice through the phone muffled by the comforter. “I feel utterly faint, like a well-corseted Victorian woman who’s just found out her lover is engaged to someone wealthier.”

“Oh, sod off, you’re the one who went and married someone else – twice,” Louis chuckles, grabbing the phone back and tucking it between his ear and shoulder while he does up his buttons.

“Nonetheless, I was not expecting such a twist in the plot,” she says, the grin audible in her voice. “What’s the plan?”

“Harry’s sister invited Harry and I round to dinner at her place at seven. She’s making excellent mashed potatoes, apparently.” He roots around in his drawer for his best skinny jeans.

“And – you said yes?”

“Is that corset of yours making you see stars now?” Louis flops back on his bed to pull on the jeans, the phone next to his ear. He hears Eleanor snort.

“Hardly. It’s – well, it’s unusual for you, is all.”

“Now that’s just mean.” Louis goes to the bathroom, critically surveys his hair in the mirror above the sink. “I do have other friends, you know. I thanked Ed today for letting me use his studio.”

“I am aware that you have friends, Lou,” Eleanor says. “All I’m trying to say is, you don’t go out with those friends much, so this is a good thing, and I am very happy that you’re going to go eat Gemma Bryant’s mashed potatoes.”

He glances down his watch. “And I really should get going now, if I’m to pick up a bottle of wine before I get there.”

“You’re bringing wine?” Eleanor sounds impressed.

“It’s polite. I wasn’t raised in the jungle, you know.”

“No, of course not,” she laughs. “Have fun, Lou. But not too much fun, because you still have your audition at ten tomorrow. I’ll meet you there?”

“Yeah, sounds good. See you.”

“Bye!”

He hangs up the call and stuffs his phone in his pocket. Six thirty-five, and he’s on his way out the door, Gemma’s address already in his phone.

\--

Gemma’s building turns out to be a recently renovated apartment complex not far from Louis’s, with hardwood floors and a bored-looking doorman who asks Louis to sign in on a half-filled visitors log before waving him up. Clutching a bottle of decent red wine by the neck, Louis steels himself, clears his throat, and knocks twice.

He expects Gemma, but it’s Harry who opens the door – Harry, standing in the doorway in eggplant colored skinny jeans and a black floral print shirt, the top three or four buttons offering a glimpse of his chest, the uppermost tips of his stomach butterfly. His curls fall gracefully, framing his face, his sparkling green eyes. And he’s grinning, unleashing his dimple in all its glory.

“Louis. Hi.” Just two words, and they sound like velvet on his tongue, low and slow and sweet.

Louis is about to say something, offer him the bottle in his hand, but they are swiftly joined by Gemma, beautiful in a red dress with her long blonde hair cascading down her shoulders. Harry takes a step back so Gemma can hug Louis, relieve him of the wine. She even kisses his cheek, then wipes off the traces of her lipstick with her thumb.

“I’m so glad you were able to make it tonight, Louis,” she says, leading him inside the apartment. Harry closes the front door, trails in behind them. “Welcome! Food’s nearly ready, so I’ll just call you to the dining table in a minute.”

Louis smiles, nods, and lets Harry take him into the living room, where Gemma’s husband and two children are relaxing. The living room is cheerful and homey, the walls filled with artwork and framed photographs. The boy is sprawled on his stomach on the rug, while the girl is sitting with her father on the sofa, watching something on Disney Channel, but all three of them stand to greet Louis, who immediately blushes.

“Hi, Louis, I’m Philip,” Philip says, his handshake firm. He is tall and thin, taller than Louis, with light brown curly hair and glasses over his brown eyes. “These are my kids, Riley and Matthew.”

“Hi, Louis,” they say in unison, also shaking his hand. It takes him a moment, but Louis remembers them from the photo Harry showed him – Matthew, no older than six or seven, with the blonde curls, and Riley, about nine or ten, her strawberry blonde hair tied back in a ponytail.

“It’s nice to meet you all,” he says. “Thanks for having me.”

“Thanks for taking the time from your busy schedule to come!” Philip grins. “Not everyday we get a full blown pop sensation in our home, is it! Gem’s been cooking up a storm all afternoon.”

Louis feels himself blushing furiously. “I, er. I hope she hasn’t gone to too much trouble.”

“Of course I haven’t,” Gemma says, appearing suddenly behind Harry and Louis, hands on her hips. “And everything’s ready now, so let’s eat.”

The rectangular table is laid out with some care, plates and napkins and silverware for six. Gemma leads Louis to the head of the table, where she sits on his left and Harry sits on his right. Philip sits with Gemma, and the children take the two remaining seats, sitting with such perfect posture that Louis is sure Gemma had a word with them about it beforehand. Philip’s smile is kind, but a little frozen, a little reverent – as though he can’t quite decide what to do with him.

This only makes Louis blush pinker, because it reminds him a bit of old One Direction meet-and-greets after concerts – fans paying far too much money, waiting for ages, jittering in desperation to see the band, only to freeze up during the big moment. They got so tongue-tied and overwhelmed, crying or blubbering nonsense or lost for words. They were so desperate for contact, but never knew what to do with it once they got it. They handed over cameras, took a few pictures, and stumbled away, as though stunned by their own daring.

Louis was never quite sure what to do in those situations, either. But at least then, the room was big and noisy and full of people – his bandmates, their bodyguards, crew, the other fans, their friends and families – so there was a layer of general mayhem to mask any awkwardness. Now, this dining room is small, and Gemma is insisting that he get the first share of chicken, and the children still look like they’re not sure they have permission to speak, and Louis wishes he were better at putting people at ease. It seems as though all he knows how to do is make them shriek, or render them speechless.

The chicken is rather tasty, though. So is the eggplant parmesan, and the baked asparagus, and of course the promised mashed potatoes. Gemma passes Louis that dish with a wink, and proceeds to plop at least a quarter of it into his plate, over his protestations that there wouldn’t be enough left for everyone else. Harry has to hide his smile with a big mouthful of asparagus. Louis feels his ears go redder and redder, and feels powerless to stop them.

So he says, “This is really excellent, Gemma,” as he attempts to dig his way through the mashed potatoes. “You’re apparently as good a cook as you are a baker.”

“Oh, stop it,” she says, though she looks pleased. “Although, I didn’t do the eggplant parmesan. That was Harry’s contribution.”

Louis, who’s taken a few bites of the parmesan, locks eyes with Harry in approving surprise. Harry ducks his head a little, his smile humble but also pleased. “It’s just a little pasta,” he mumbles.

“I can’t cook to save my life,” Louis says. “Can’t even scramble an egg. My mum’s forever despaired over my lack of domestic skills.”

“I imagine a big pop star like yourself never needed to scramble eggs,” Philip remarks, with an earnestness that makes Louis’s heart ache. “You wrote all the hits for your band, didn’t you?”

“Well, co-wrote, but I still should’ve learned eggs, at least.” Again, that blush; Louis’s face is going to be a blotchy mess by the time this dinner is over.

“I’ll teach you,” Harry puts in. “You’ll have the hang of it in no time.”

“You know, I was in a band in college myself – at Penn State?” Philip adds. “Didn’t last long and didn’t record any more than a demo, but it was great fun at the time.”

“What kind of music did you play?” Louis asks.

“Folksy kind of stuff, and a lot of covers,” says Philip. “I did the singing. Never great shakes with writing.” He pauses. “What was it like, living the dream? We played for maybe twenty people at a time, but you lot – all over the world, thousands of people, everyone knowing your lyrics. Do you miss it?”

Louis freezes, his fork heaped with mashed potatoes halfway to his mouth. He tries to smile, but he’s sure his face looks pained. This is the hard part – the questions, the reminiscing. The kids, eating in polite silence; Gemma, looking interested as she cuts into her asparagus. He can feel Harry next to him, probably trying to think of a way to rescue him from the conversation. He eats the bite of mashed potatoes to give himself some thinking time.

When he swallows, he manages, “I do miss the big tours and seeing my bandmates all the time, but I still get to sing, which is nice, and I like being able to control my own schedule.”

“I can imagine.” Philip is glassy-eyed with awe. “Must’ve been grueling with the schedule, but so massively exciting to see the world. I’ve never been anywhere except England to visit Gem’s parents.”

Louis nods, stuffs a big bite of chicken into his mouth.

“And now this song for Taylor Swift!” says Gemma. “Phil and I are _so_ excited, but Harry said we have to wait and see what Taylor says before we’re allowed to hear it.”

“The demo still hasn’t been recorded,” Harry says. “Studio day is tomorrow.”

“A real studio!” Philip beams, sighs blissfully into his forkful of mashed potatoes.

“Are you recording anything new for yourself these days, Louis?” Gemma asks.

“Er, no, not at the moment.” Louis clears his throat. “But I’m auditioning for _Teen Wolf_ tomorrow, which should be exciting.”

“I love _Teen Wolf_!” Riley pipes up unexpectedly. Even she seems shocked by her own daring, as everyone’s heads turn to look at her. “I watch it with my friend Emily sometimes.”

Louis grins. “Well, I may be on it in a few episodes.”

“That would be so cool!” Riley’s smile is pure sunshine. “I’ll tell all my friends and we’ll watch!”

“That sounds great, thank you!” Louis offers Riley an air high-five across the table, which she enthusiastically reciprocates, swatting the air with vociferous force.

“It’s great that you’re acting,” Gemma says. “You’re a double threat!”

“It’s just something different to do,” Louis says with a shrug.

“Our Riley here is a bit of an actress too,” Harry notes, smiling at her. “Tell Louis about your play!”

“Oh yes!” Riley lays down her fork for this one. “We are doing _The Wizard of Oz_ , and I get to be the Wicked Witch of the West!”

“How exciting!” Louis doesn’t have to work hard to drum up delight. “When is the play?”

“It’s in May,” Riley says promptly.

“I’m in the play too!” Matthew interrupts, not to be outdone. “I help with the sets.”

“A vitally important job,” says Louis, offering him an air high-five as well. Matthew actually gets up from the table to return Louis’s high-five in person, which makes Louis chuckle and Harry smile brightly.

“So,” Louis says. “Tell me about how the play is going.”

And she does – in full detail, the sets and the makeup and the dress that Gemma bought. The banter begins to flow from there, cheerful and lively. Somehow the topic changes to travel, and Louis allows himself to talk a little bit about the places he’s been, the adventures he’s had – the many international police departments Simon has had to appease when the band got too rowdy. And Gemma jumps in with a story about British airport security, the time she was taking a baby Riley to New York – Riley, inexplicably screaming at the top of her lungs for half an hour, utterly inconsolable, to the point where officers stopped Gemma and Philip to ask if they were kidnapping the girl. The whole table roars with laughter – especially Riley – as Philip describes through tears having to fork over their papers to prove that this child, red in the face and still screaming, was indeed theirs. Riley beams like this means she’s won something.

As they all talk, and listen, Gemma and Philip finally acclimate to the idea of celebrity and relax into themselves, letting Louis feel like one of their own. Like this is Doncaster, his mother and his sisters and Lottie’s kids and everyone is teasing each other. He helps himself to seconds of everything and, when Gemma brings out homemade cheesecake for dessert, lets Philip joke about how his eyes light up at the sight of it. Louis and Harry exchange knowing glances, and Harry gestures for Louis to take the first slice. Gemma immediately cuts him a big piece and he is more than willing to eat the entirety of it, making Gemma blush with pleasure. She offers to pack him some to take home in the same way that his mother used to offer to pack him food when he was about to leave for a tour – which rather touches him. He accepts, and Gemma fetches Tupperware at once, swatting Harry’s hand away when he tries to go for one more slice, making them all laugh.

For the most part, though, Harry is quiet, engrossed in his food and in the rhythm of the conversation, leaving plenty of space for everyone else. Louis feels his eyes on him often during the course of dinner; his gaze is gentle, and he seems content just to look, without any expectation of reciprocation. Though, Louis does do that, of course – checking in every little bit, wondering what Harry’s thinking, if he found a joke as amusing as Louis did. Their communication is mostly silent, crinkly eyes and half-smiles and a tentative sort of togetherness – an implicit understanding that they gravitate towards each other, shyly and carefully but undeniably. Harry’s face is generally neutral, but his eyes give him away – sparkly, so sweetly affectionate – and Louis’s smile is always that much wider, his heart that much softer, when he basks under the warmth of Harry’s all-consuming attention.

When dessert is just crumbs left on plates, and a natural lull falls over the conversation, Louis opens his mouth to offer to help Gemma clear the kitchen, but Riley and Matthew decide that Louis has to play _Just Dance_ with them and drag him off with no intention of entertaining his refusal. Gemma waves them off with a chuckle, wishing Louis luck against Riley’s formidable skills, and sending Philip and Harry into the kitchen to help her. Riley starts the game and has to spend a few minutes explaining how it works – and when Louis has his first go, he is indeed a terrible mess of uncoordinated limbs that has both of the kids in peals of laughter. Matthew tries to help and break down the steps to “Oops, I Did It Again,” but Louis just shakes his head and remarks that he never had to learn choreography as heinous as this when he was in an actual boyband.

He gets a little better as he tries a few different songs and gets used to the system. He has to expend considerable energy to contain himself when he sees “Love You Like a Love Song,” that Eric Reynolds-penned mess, on the main list. Riley insists on doing “Super Bass” four times, and only during the fourth go-round does Louis even begin to get a handle on it. He’s never been a particularly good dancer, or even really a fan of videogames that aren’t FIFA. All the required hip work throws him off.

“Those are some smooth moves, Lou,” Harry remarks when Louis has to pause for breath at the end of “Super Bass.” He’s standing against the entrance into the living room, his dimpled smile sly as he observes Louis collapsing on the couch in exhaustion. Louis throws a pillow at him, which hits his knees and lands at his feet.

“This is madness,” Louis says, “and I was in a real band.”

“It’s a game. It’s just fun.” Harry looks like he is enjoying himself entirely too much.

“Then why don’t you take over for me, spread the fun around.”

“No!” Riley says. “You and Hazza have to do a dance battle now.”

“There’s no battle,” Louis says, glancing at Harry and then at Riley. “Hazza would win.”

“Isn’t ‘What Makes You Beautiful’ on this version?” Harry takes the remote from Riley and scrolls. Louis sits bolt upright on the couch, like a rabbit sensing danger in the air.

“No. _No_. Hard pass.”

“Yes, there it is!” Harry pumps his fist in celebration as he selects the song.

“We’ve never done this one,” Matthew remarks.

“With good reason!” Louis squawks.

“We must do a dance battle to this song.” The glee in Harry’s voice is unmistakable. “Come on, Lou, you’ll know all the words!”

“That’s the whole point.” Louis gives an involuntary shudder. “So many years of having to sing this has left me with severe PTSD and your notion of a dance battle is intensely triggering for me.”

“Come on, Louis,” Harry laughs, offering his hand. “Come dance with me.”

“Nooooo.” Louis shakes his head and sits firmly on both of his hands. “No, you can’t make me.”

“Come on, Louis!” Riley chimes in. “It’s your band, right? You _have_ to do it.”

“It’s not my band anymore!”

“So let’s have a trip down memory lane.” Harry’s eyes twinkle with mischief, his hand still outstretched.

“ _Nooooo._ ”

Harry sighs. “I really didn’t want it to come to this, but Louis, you do owe me.”

“Do not!”

“Do too. From the bakery? You said you’d perform one song for me in return for me performing for you.”

“What a cruel way for you to collect on that ill-advised promise.” Louis sighs deeply, looking dejected.

“It’ll be fun,” Harry says. “One go to ‘What Makes You Beautiful,’ and then you’re free to never think about it again.”

“Please, please, _please_ ,” Riley and Matthew chorus from behind Harry, bouncing up and down.

And is there really a choice, at that point? Louis groans, slowly withdraws his hands from beneath his thighs and lets Harry take one, lift up his body weight in one smooth swoop.

“You are an evil human being,” Louis informs Harry, grumpily taking his spot beside him in front of the TV. “This is an evil thing to do.”

“You like it,” Harry decides. “And you like me.”

“Don’t count on it,” Louis grumbles.

“Okay, ready, steady – go!” Riley starts the song with, in Louis’s humble opinion, completely unnecessary flourish, and the opening notes of that infernal tune begin.

But as much as he passionately loathes every last chord of “What Makes You Beautiful,” Riley and Matthew, who have never played this song on _Just Dance_ or heard it on the radio, bop their heads along, apparently appreciating it. And Harry, whose giraffe limbs are joyfully flailing to the beat, his curls flying with every movement, seems to be having the time of his life, singing along breathlessly but exuberantly to every word. His voice is deep and surprisingly melodic, holding the tune quite well. And even though that chorus does remind Louis of Simon in the wings of a concert, sternly staring them down through a performance none of them wanted to give, he can’t really begrudge Harry, Riley or Matthew the innocent indulgence of a catchy tune. He can’t deny them the novelty of dancing and singing to a song with its original performer. He can’t stay annoyed with Harry for long when he keeps glancing at Louis with a wide smile on his face, his eyes hopeful that Louis is at least enjoying himself a little.

So, Louis dances gracelessly but genuinely to the entirety of the song, claps like a gentleman when the system announces that Harry won by four points, and offers to go again with Matthew if he wants. Which, he does, and Riley is on deck after that – and so Louis makes his best exaggerated grumpy face, and muddles along with the choreography. He even lets Riley wear him down into singing along with the chorus the last time, the two of them practically hollering it as they finish out their dance battle, Louis actually winning this one. Riley double high-fives him for it with her little sweaty palms, and that feels more victorious than anything they’ve done with _Just Dance_ today. He offers her a hug, then collapses back on the sofa – Riley and Matthew collapsing on either side of him, and Harry collapsing on the loveseat adjacent to the couch.

“Thank you, Lou,” Harry says – and though the words come out a little strangled from all the dancing and bouncing that’s worn him out, they are warm and earnest and hit Louis like a well-aimed arrow to the heart.

Louis offers him a folksy thumbs-up, but he can feel the fondness light up his face from the inside out. “You’re welcome, Curly.”

Gemma arrives in the living room then, a flowery apron over her red dress and her hair tied back in a ponytail. She surveys the scene – four bodies sprawled over her living room furniture, chests heaving up and down as they cool down from the game – and chuckles, her hands on her hips.

“Oh, the lot of you,” she says. “Poor Louis did not come here to be badgered into that many rounds of _Just Dance_.”

“It’s fine, really,” Louis says, grinning up at her. “But thank you for your concern.”

“Can I get you anything else, Lou? More dessert, coffee?”

“I appreciate it, but no, I’m alright, thanks. I should get going, actually – got that _Teen Wolf_ audition tomorrow, and that song will have to be finished in the studio, so I’ll need the sleep.” He begins heaving himself up to his feet.

“Are you sure?” Gemma looks genuinely put out. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.”

“I know. And on another night, I probably would. You’ve been the best hostess.” He is standing now, and Harry does too, the kids watching. “But I should go home now. Tomorrow will be busy.”

“Well, all right then,” Gemma says reluctantly. “I’ve got your cheesecake all packed up for you, and you have an open invitation to come by whenever you like, just pop on over.”

“I’ll take you up on that some time.” He smiles, hugs her tightly. “Thank you for a lovely evening.”

“You’re welcome.” She beams, and quickly returns to the table to pick up a Tupperware dish stuffed with cheesecake. “Enjoy! And good luck with the song!”

Louis thanks her again, and thanks Philip too, gives Riley and Matthew final hugs. Riley wishes him luck for _Teen Wolf_ and makes him promise to let her know if he gets the role. Then Harry appears at his side again, his hand ghosting Louis’s elbow, murmurs, “I’ll walk you out” – so Louis waves goodbye, but rides the elevator down to the parking garage with Harry. Harry, whose hair is a mess of curls after _Just Dance_ , who glances at Louis in the elevator and has the tiniest blush blossoming on his cheeks when they make eye contact. The air is a little electric between them, the narrow space between their arms alive with anticipation.

When they reach the parking garage, Louis turns to Harry, clears his throat, and says, “So, this is me, I’m parked just over there in the second row.”

“Right.” Harry clears his throat too, tucks his errant curls behind his ears. “Thank you, again, seriously, for coming. It meant a lot to my sister. And…and to me. It meant a lot to me too.” He pauses. “I was glad you came, because I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, before. At the bakery.”

“I know.” His sigh is tiny, fragile. “I, um. I had a good time. A really good time. And I hope you still want to come to the studio with me tomorrow.”

“I do,” Harry says quickly. “I…do.” He screws up his face, seeming to cringe at himself. “I—I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.

“I just—” Harry schools his face into as careful a neutrality as he can muster, but his eyes still smolder with intensity. “This might be a little forward, and you can say no, but—can I try something?”

Louis’s heart clenches, heat and nerves gripping his insides. His stomach swoops, his instincts on alert. He pauses on an inhale, his eyes averted down; he looks up at Harry through his eyelashes, nods once. His grasp on the Tupperware of cheesecake tightens.

Harry seems to feel similarly, like all the wires holding him together are taut with expectation. But he takes a step forward towards Louis, and another smaller one, until the Tupperware touches Harry’s torso, until the distance between them is so little that Louis can count every shade of green in Harry’s irises. His hand anchors on Louis’s jaw, his palm warm but nonetheless sending icy shivers down Louis’s spine. Harry’s other hand tilts Louis’s chin up just a little, just enough, his pupils already dilated – and then, in another breath, there is his mouth, closing gently on Louis’s own.

It is an exceedingly gentle kiss – just an experimental, dry brush lips. Harry withdraws slowly – his hand, his face from Louis’s – seeming to savor it.

“Been wanting to do that all day.” His voice is low and a little rough, but unmistakably pleased. He still lingers so close, so unwilling to move any farther.

And Louis is still clutching his Tupperware, amazed he hasn’t dropped it. His lips seem to buzz a little where Harry kissed them. His mind has already short-circuited, sparking weakly in his skull. His exhale is shaky, careful.

He looks up into Harry’s eyes, so green and hopeful, waiting. His heart swells like a complicated symphony – sweetness, recklessness, a dizzying want. He is more than a little frightened, and yet he feels himself relent to the inevitable, to a feeling he thought he’d never known but that has been kindling inside him since he first met Harry. He sets his Tupperware on the trunk of a stranger’s car, and leans in before he can convince himself not to, meets Harry in a real kiss, infused with both shyness and purpose. His arms wrap themselves around Harry’s neck, as Harry brings Louis in from the small of his back, his hands pressing in close to Louis’s bum. A fizz of pleasure ignites somewhere deep behind Louis’s navel, like pieces fitting into place.

It’s been so long. Too long. But somehow that makes it sweeter, letting Harry’s tongue slip inside his mouth and kiss him like a revelation. This hasn’t been how they were – Louis never let his mind venture that way, not with that song to write – but now that they are here, in the hallowed silence of Gemma’s parking garage, it feels like the most natural progression of events. Louis kisses with lust he cannot hope to contain. There’s no return from this.

“Come with me,” Louis murmurs, breaking the kiss to rest his forehead against Harry’s. “I have to go in the morning, so you have to come.”

“Yeah, okay.” Harry steals another quick kiss, two kisses, three. “Okay, let’s go.”

\--

“I have to leave at nine, I’ve already got the alarm set,” Louis says between kisses, scrabbling with the lock on his front door as Harry’s hand squeezes the meat of his arse.

“Mhmm.” The door opens, and Harry has Louis pinned against the wall, his mouth now working on the skin at the base of Louis’s neck.

“Just – you came here in my car.” He’s half-panting, half-whimpering, squirming under Harry’s relentless teeth. “W-Will you have a ride?”

Harry finishes the lovebite and runs his tongue reverently over his handiwork. “Mhmm. Don’t worry.”

“And Gemma?” Louis’s voice is thin. “Does she know you’re here?”

“Mmm. She knows.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Harry noses behind Louis’s ear, breathes him in. “Are you done worrying now?”

“I—” Harry’s hips press against Louis’s, their lips meeting again, and Harry’s tongue plunders the rest of Louis’s coherence right off the roof of his mouth.

Sandwiched between the wall and the firmness of Harry’s body, their hips grinding together, Louis’s hands tangling in Harry’s soft curls, it’s all a wash of sensation, waves of saltwater short-circuiting Louis’s over-stimulated heart from the inside out. He rests his head against the wall, lets Harry devour him, suck a fresh bruise on his delicate collarbone. His mouth is a thorough and wondrous thing, working Louis’s skin with earnest confidence. His fingers curl into belt loops of Louis’s jeans, pulling him even closer. It is so much, and never enough, and it’s so _good_ – too good. They collide in a messy kiss that is all teeth and tongue and saliva, and Louis whines into Harry’s mouth, digs his fingers deeper into Harry’s scalp. He gets the message, wrenching himself away with difficulty, just long enough to drag Louis into the bedroom.

The jeans come off, discarded in a heap on the floor. Then it’s the button-down – Harry, growling at each insubordinate button disobeying his quivering hands, and Louis, laying his smaller palm atop Harry’s knuckles to still him, help him undo the buttons so that his green shirt opens like butterfly wings, exposing the smooth goldenness of his chest. He makes to nibble at this fresh expanse of Louis’s body, but Louis stops him, attempting to pull Harry’s already half-open shirt over his head. Harry’s butterfly is obvious and sunshine yellow even in the dark, and Louis runs his fingers over the ink, over Harry’s extraneous nipples, eliciting Harry’s shivery sigh into his mouth. Just this, just touching, is a novelty.

“You said you had tattoos,” Harry says into Louis’s chest, his tongue working on Louis’s nipple now, making him groan and arch his back into Harry’s stomach.

“How do you remember that?” Louis practically whimpers.

“I remember everything.” Harry presses a satisfied kiss to that spot. “Where?”

Louis hesitates, but not for long. He tilts his torso to better display the left side of his ribcage, where a small line of black cursive follows the curve of his pectoral muscle. _It is what it is,_ in his own handwriting. When he knows that Harry has seen it, he pulls down the right corner of his boxers to reveal a small red phoenix on his hip, a thin line of smoke trailing from the end of its generous tail. On his right side, up the soft line of his waist, is an array of musical notes. Harry runs a finger up the line, the question unspoken in his eyes.

“The end of the chorus to a song Niall wrote,” Louis whispers to the dark room, to Harry’s sweet curious face. “‘Don’t Forget Where You Belong.’”

“Does Niall know you have that?” Harry asks.

“The tattoo, yes. That particular song, no.”

“ _Lou._ ” Harry sighs, buries his face into the tattoo and kisses each individual note, then moves back to Louis’s face, resting the full weight of his body onto Louis’s front so he can kiss him soundly. Louis makes an impatient sort of sound, trying to get Harry’s skin-tight, eggplant-colored pants off his legs – and when Harry finally obliges, brackets Louis’s naked thighs between his own, their cocks aligned and creating friction in a way that has fireworks going off behind Louis’s gut, he is almost overwhelmed. The realness of Harry, the solidness and heat of him, his obvious desire, his mouth and his hands and his long hair like a protective curtain around their faces, is more than Louis knows what to do with. Even when he was having sex more regularly, it was never like this, never this good from only this much.

He pauses their kiss to hold Harry’s face in his hands for a moment, his thumbs pushing his curls back, just to look at him – the flush of his otherwise pale cheek, his blown pupils, the ripe pinkness of his lips all bruised from their kisses. He must be the loveliest creature Louis has ever laid eyes upon, in every sense of the word. He aches with it, a little, when Harry loses patience and flips them over, ripping off their briefs so that it is at last skin on skin, nothing more in between them.

Louis has never been one to reveal himself, or even expect others to reveal themselves, but this utterly lovely man is so eager to give and take, his attention so singularly upon Louis, that he wants to be worthy of it.

So, he shifts them to the side, facing each other, breathing short ragged breaths into each other’s mouths. Harry leans in for another kiss, but Louis shakes his head once, asks quite solemnly, “How do you make holy water?”

Harry is, predictably, puzzled. “What?”

“Just – how do you make holy water?”

“I…don’t know? You’d probably have to ask the church?”

Louis’s lips quirk up in a sheepish grin. “You boil the hell out of it.”

Harry blinks twice.

“You know, you – it’s a pun,” Louis explains lamely, blushing. “Boil the— you boil water, right, the hell is the pun – you know, for holiness—”

In spite of their urgency, their rapidly hardening cocks, Harry bursts out laughing.

“Did you just tell me a _joke_ , Louis?” he asks, when he catches his breath, his eyes wide and delighted.

“I did, yeah.” Louis is grinning now too, gently smoothing out Harry’s sweat-dampened curls and tucking them behind his ear. “Courtesy of my sister Daisy. I have more.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. My youngest sister Doris told me one a few weeks ago, want to hear it?”

Harry nods so vigorously that the curls Louis had settled flop out from behind his ear again.

“Okay. What is blue and smells like red paint?”

“What?” Harry’s eyes shine in the dark.

“Blue paint.”

And again, Harry explodes into laughter, kicking his feet and burying his face in the comforter.

“That’s horrible,” he says weakly, still giggling.

“What kind of shoes do ninjas wear?”

“What?”

“Sneakers.”

Harry’s laugh is such a beautiful thing, giddy and choky and unbridled and sweet.

“Louis, why are you telling me jokes?” he asks, wiping a tear from his eye.

“Because,” Louis says, shifting closer to Harry’s face, their noses brushing against each other’s, “when we were at the diner, and I was asking you about the best sex you ever had, you said it was with someone who made you laugh. So, on such short notice, lame puns from my sisters are all I’ve got off the top of my head.”

Harry looks like he might melt. He hitches his leg over Louis’s thigh and his hand finds the back of Louis’s head, bringing him in for a deep, almost frantic kiss.

“You,” he says, peppering Louis’s whole face with kisses, “are so sweet.”

“No,” Louis manages, but Harry traps him in another kiss so intense it’s almost punishing.

“Yes.” Harry’s thumb brushes across Louis’s cheekbone, and he leaves one kiss at the corner of his mouth, before shifting down in one fluid motion, his large hand wrapped around the length of Louis’s cock. He kitten-licks the head with tenderness, playfulness, as Louis squirms with pleasure.

“I’m going to take care of you, okay?” he says, looking up at Louis from between his thighs. “So just relax, stop thinking so hard. I’m going to make this so good for you.”

“You don’t—”

But Harry takes him into his mouth with such decisive authority, making Louis grab the comforter with both his fists for dear life, that his protestation dies at the tip of his tongue.

\--

And he does, he really does. Harry is both gentle and thorough, taking Louis’s gratification with the utmost seriousness. He is a certain kind of determined, his tongue and his fingers almost overwhelming in their relentlessness. He keeps Louis on the edge of climax for ages, building it up and up and up so that when he finally comes into Harry’s waiting mouth, with a broken sob of relief and ecstasy shattering the air, it’s like the orgasm has been wrenched out from somewhere deep inside of him, some part of himself he’d forgotten he still possessed.

It is a poignant pleasure, somehow, tinged with something raw. Even cocooned in this bed in their shared heat, there is this cool chill of vulnerability blowing through the spaces between his ribs, a helplessness that makes him shiver. He spirals down from the high like a petal in a windstorm, too overcome to think straight, curled up on his side all wrung out and reeling. And Harry, who came a second after Louis did without even being touched, gathers him up in his arms, lets him rest against his sternum, mouth in his hair. He holds Louis until his breaths relax into normalcy. Then Harry tilts Louis’s chin up, kisses him softly until he feels Louis go limp, exhausted.

They drift off to sleep just like that, Harry holding Louis against his chest, Louis’s arm splayed across the butterfly on Harry’s torso, the duvet yanked over them. It’s the fastest, deepest sleep Louis has had in a long time, as he listens to Harry breathe. It’s a sleep borne of soul-deep satisfaction – not just from the orgasm, but from all of it, from Harry’s very existence in this room on this night, from all that he is and all that he has made Louis feel. All of Harry, seeming to expose that profoundest seed of who Louis is but also guarding it now, between the two of them, guarding Louis so patiently as Louis lets his unconscious sweep him away.

\--

When Louis first blinks awake the next morning, limbs and eyelids still heavy with sleep, the first and only real thing he registers is Harry – Harry, the radiating warmth of him, tucked into Louis’s body, his hair in Louis’s face. Somehow in the night, they must have shifted, and now they lie together like quotation marks, spooned into each other – Harry, inexplicably fitting into Louis, Louis’s arm across his waist. Louis can literally feel him breathing, soft snuffling sounds that expand and contract his stomach, just beyond Louis’s fingertips.

It’s impossible to know what time it is without being able to see his clock or his phone – and without knowing the time, he feels unglued, suspended in the matrix of existence without an anchor. The air is so perfectly still, like time has slowed to a maple syrup crawl, and the April sunshine glows yellow-orange behind the cream curtain on the window, as though dawn is only now being felt in this silent, insulated room. It’s like he’s living in a moment between moments – the breathlessness before the exhale.

And anyway, Harry is so settled and comfortable that Louis doesn’t have the wherewithal to move just yet. Instead, he nuzzles his face deeper into Harry’s curls. The scent of him, before product or the outside world, is intoxicating – comforting, down to Louis’s very marrow.

Yet, as the minutes tick by, taking shape slowly as Louis wakes up in earnest, the dreaminess of the morning gives way to the sharper, more mundane aspects of reality. He becomes increasingly aware of the details – of how naked he is under the covers, how his and Harry’s combined body heat feels heavy on his skin. How the mess they made last night is on the other side of the bed, and the sheets will need imminent washing. How he’s _here_ , in his bed after sex, snuggled against someone he’s working with, someone he likes – someone who stayed the whole night. Someone with whom everything has suddenly changed.

Someone whose bum is pressed flush against Louis’s dick – which Louis’s dick is beginning to notice. And want more of.

This, more than anything else, convinces Louis to carefully disentangle himself from Harry, roll off the bed and pluck his underwear off the floor, back over his thighs. Outside the cocoon of the duvet, the relative cold of the room bringing a shiver to his legs, he’s dazed, feeling almost hungover, even though he’s never been more sober in his life. He stumbles into the bathroom, gazes impassively at his reflection in the mirror.

He looks – well, fucked. Hair wild and standing in every direction, lips puffy and vivid pink, sooty shadows under tired eyes, the blue of his irises striking him as both bright and contrite. He sees at least two bruises, on his neck and his collarbone, from Harry’s teeth. His mouth is sticky, still tasting of Harry. He holds the sink for support, wonders at this person who is supposed to be him, who is so raw and undone, who has been jostled and disrupted and lived in.

Slowly, he puts himself back together again – hair brushed, contacts in, a quick shower to wash the night away. He grabs a t-shirt and jeans for the audition, and a jacket and scarf, even though it won’t be terribly cold outside. Have to hide the bruises, after all. He turns off his eight o’clock alarm at 7:57, and tucks his phone into his pocket. He writes a quick note for Harry on a Post-It – _Gone to audition, stay as long as you like, studio at 7pm_ –  and is just tacking it to the lampshade when he hears Harry beginning to stir.

He is the picture of innocence like this, struggling to wake, rolling onto his back and rubbing his eyes. And in him, Louis sees a little of what he saw in his own mirror – the puffy pink lips, the tangled curls, the shadow of a bruise on his jaw. Louis freezes, caught, as Harry blinks, squints up at him, the beginnings of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“I have to go,” Louis explains apologetically, gesturing to his Post-It. “Go back to sleep.”

Harry makes a disgruntled sort of noise, like he’s working himself up to say something, but Louis instinctively lays two fingers over his too-pink mouth. He leans in, whispers, “Sleep. I’ll see you later.”

Harry’s lips are so soft under Louis’s fingers, his eyes so sleepy and green in the limited sunlight, that Louis almost gives in, almost closes the distance between them and presses a kiss to that beautiful mouth. Almost. But instead he hovers, runs his fingers across the pillowy expanse of Harry’s lower lip. He feels Harry shiver involuntarily, close his eyes for a heartbeat and then open them again. Louis withdraws his hand, breath caught in his throat.

“Sleep,” he repeats, voice a little rougher. And then he’s gone.

\--

Louis is still plenty early for the meeting and on his way to Panera for a spot of breakfast when Eleanor calls, asking if he’s awake and in the mood to get waffles.

For a minute, he’s tempted. But then he remembers all the questions she’s going to ask about dinner, about the scarf around his neck when he never wears scarves in April, and he hears himself tell her that he wants to read through his script again quietly before going to the audition.

She understands, tells him to let her know how it goes. And he hangs up feeling guilty for lying to her, necessary though it is.

He really does go to Panera and read his script quietly, though, laser-focused on the world of wolves and teenage drama instead of…anything _else_.

\--

The audition goes well – very well, actually. Louis is relaxed, for once, through the audition and afterwards. He texts Eleanor, letting her know it was a success, and she sends back a string of emojis that make him smile. He then pockets his phone and decides to treat himself to McDonald’s.

On his way to McDonald’s, however, he passes a Barnes & Noble and pauses to contemplate an advertisement for _The Incredibly True Story of Marcel French_ , movie coming soon. The large banner covers half the window, a table display of stacked copies of the novel below it. A portrait of Sebastian Hamilton in all his smug, pretentious glory stares out at the street. Louis finds himself scowling up at Sebastian, at his stupid book, at this upcoming movie that he will profit so fabulously from. This unsavory thought compels Louis’s feet into the bookstore, directly towards the offending display.

He picks up one of the books and reads the description. It’s as Harry had told him: a brilliant literary professor, a young man with literary ambitions, a passionate love affair that leads them both to their ruination. He’s flipping through the first few pages, his nose wrinkled in distaste, when a woman behind him remarks, “Oh, that’s a good one.”

“I’m sorry?” Louis turns around to face her.

The woman chuckles softly. She’s young and blonde, pushing a stroller containing a sleeping infant. “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” she says. “It’s, um. It’s a good book.”

“What did you like about it?” Louis asks.

“Just – it’s so terribly romantic.” She sighs self-consciously, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I can’t wait to see the movie.”

“What’s romantic about it?”

“How it’s all so…forbidden.” She is too earnest for her own good. “They can’t be together, because the professor is married and it’s wrong, but Carlisle and Marcel still can’t stay away from each other. And they write such beautiful things for each other, because they’re both writers – I think it says that on the back? And I don’t want to ruin the ending for you, because it’s probably the best part, but it’s – it’s really well-written.” The woman smiles shyly. “I don’t usually buy novels, but that one was worth it.”

“Thanks,” Louis says, because it’s all he can muster while trying to contain his bitterness.

“You’re welcome.” She clears her throat. “Have a good day.”

When she’s safely on the other side of the store, Louis glares down at the book, bile rising in his throat. He can’t think what could possibly be romantic about the notion that being gay means being tragic and illicit and sinful. And he definitely fails to find the romance in a double suicide, or in an inherently unequal relationship between a professor and his younger student, someone who deserved to be protected.

He wants to put the book down, forget all about it and get his food and go home. But the way that woman talked about it nags at him, won’t get out of his head. She found it _romantic_. This, Harry’s personal agony packed into a trite self-serving novel, was romantic to a perfect stranger, probably a straight one, who had no idea what this book was or why it was written. Louis finds himself compelled to read it for himself – to get to the bottom of this thing, see Sebastian’s words, pick apart the “romance” that has inexplicably pulled the wool over everyone else’s eyes.

Unbidden, an image of Harry this morning flickers in Louis’s mind – sprawled naked and vulnerable in Louis’s bed, dark curls against the white pillow, Louis’s fingers on his lips as he was trying to leave. A crescendo of conflicted emotion billows in Louis’s chest – guilt, affection, protectiveness. Lovely Harry, who told Louis his biggest secret so early on, who insisted on taking care of him last night, whose kiss still feels like it lingers on Louis’s mouth. He wants to respect Harry’s privacy, wants to keep that line between them – his life on one side, Harry’s on the other – but he also meant what he said at the bakery, about wanting to read this book and prove that Sebastian Hamilton got everything wrong.

The book is already thick, full with so many typed pages, but it feels heavier still as Louis considers the weight of all it entails. He should put it down and leave, right now, but he doesn’t. He walks the book to the front register, pays the obnoxious sticker price, and carries it out with him in a little plastic shopper bag.

He feels like a hypocrite, thinking of how much he values his privacy, how angry he was when Harry read his Wikipedia page. But he keeps the book anyway, drives home with it riding in the front seat, because after all he and Harry have been through in this extraordinary week and a half that they’ve known each other, after all he has let Harry coax and prod his secrets out of him – he has to know. He can’t find the words to explain this marrow-deep compulsion, but it feels vital. Like the last missing piece to a puzzle whose face he still can’t make out. He just…has to know.

So he goes home with a bag bursting with French fries and chicken nuggets, intending to curl up in bed with the novel before preparing himself for the studio tonight – but when he opens the door he is confronted with the smell of eggs.

Which can’t be right, because Louis doesn’t have eggs in his refrigerator. He’s a dreadful cook, can’t even be entrusted with a pot of noodles, and anyway, this smells _good_. And no such smells have ever come out of his apartment. He leaves the McDonald’s bag on his counter in disbelief, follows his nose into his kitchen.

And there, on the counter, is a plate containing an omelet, covered neatly in plastic wrap, a yellow Post-It tacked on top. The Post-It is from the same pad Louis used to leave Harry his own note in the morning.

With some irrational trepidation, Louis plucks the note off the plate, takes in Harry’s careful loopy script, compressed to fit on the tiny square.

_Lou— hope it’s okay I cooked. Promise I’ll teach you eggs one day. Text me studio address. xx H_

He tries to picture it: Harry, sleepy-eyed and naked in Louis’s bed, waking up alone. Taking a quick shower, pulling on yesterday’s clothes, running long pale fingers through dark mussed curls. Padding into the kitchen, hungry, and finding it excessively neglected and wanting. Running out to the supermarket down the street for supplies – because Louis definitely doesn’t have eggs, or whatever green herb is sprinkled into this omelet – paying at the cash register and then coming back through Louis’s door, sorting through the pans Louis’s mum bought him when he moved in here. Harry, making them both breakfast, eating by himself, washing up, leaving the dishes stacked neatly in the wrong cupboard. Setting up Louis’s plate for him, finding the Post-It stack on the bedside table, remembering the conversation with Philip last night, probably smiling as he wrote the little note for Louis to find later. Harry, locking Louis’s door behind him, as he got on with his day. Probably at the bakery now, the bakery with the rainbow heart on the door, making bread and cupcakes and smiling at strangers.

The images make him ache. The book he brought upstairs feels even heavier, an anchor long buried on the ocean floor that he had no business unearthing. He stares at the small omelet in the plate for several seconds – this gesture, after that night. The dazed sensation from this morning returns, like he doesn’t know where to begin sorting out his feelings.

He can’t process, so he doesn’t. He takes his omelet to the dining table, swallows it down in five bites. Then he eats his McDonald’s on autopilot, eating until it’s done and his stomach is too perplexed by the sudden influx of sustenance to complain. And then he’s in his room, undoing the bed Harry must have made so painstakingly this morning, slipping into the covers on the side that Harry slept on, the sheets against his legs the spare ones from the cupboard because Harry must have put the dirty ones in the wash, the book clutched open in his trembling hands. Louis’s eyes blur across the lines, intently soaking in the words – wondering at them, picking them apart.

His tenuous career, his audition today, his upcoming studio session, his long-suffering manager, that rash and inadvisable thing he let himself participate in last night – all of those things suddenly feel as distant as the faraway stars. The only thing that matters now is this book. Sebastian’s book, Harry’s book. The book that changed Harry’s life.

Because Louis has to know. Whatever the cost, whatever the outcome, _he has to know_.

Today, of all days, his continued survival depends upon knowing, to the fullest extent possible, who exactly he is dealing with.

\--

The only thing that stirs Louis from _Marcel French_ is his phone calendar beeping insistently at five o’clock, telling him to get a move on with things. Collecting his notes, eating dinner, getting to Ed’s studio a little earlier than seven so that he can get settled on Ed’s machinery.

The final step of this process, finally upon him. The thought should flood him with relief, but instead he just feels solemn, a ball of anxiety like the pit of a nectarine dully throbbing somewhere deep in his being. He is quiet as he gets ready for the studio; he puts his headphones in, but plays nothing, listens to nothing but the faint beat of his own heart.

He lets himself into Ed’s Manhattan apartment at six thirty, turns on the machines in the little home studio he’s built inside the spare bedroom. Ed has soundproofed the room thoroughly, has a drum set, a guitar, and a keyboard all set up alongside various sound equipment and speakers. A Mac laptop sits at the center of it all – with Ed’s username and password written on a Post-It taped to the lid. Louis can’t help but smirk. He logs into the computer, opens up the sound-editing program, and tinkers around with the controls a bit. It’s been awhile since Louis has been in a studio, and this setup is more tech-savvy than his ever was, but he does remember how this goes.

He’s experimenting with the guitar, strumming a few minor chords, when the buzzer for the door goes off, makes Louis jump. It’s Harry, ten minutes early. Louis pops out front to buzz him up, leaves the front door unlocked. He is about to go back to the studio, look busy when Harry arrives, but his stomach squirms with discomfort. Awkward, awkward. He should stay here, greet Harry. Or would that be even more awkward?

Louis really isn’t sure what the protocol is, seeing each other just hours after having sex. So he settles for filling two glasses of water at the sink, door wide open.

Harry comes up to the apartment a moment later, the sound of his boots preceding him.

“Louis, hi!” He sounds like his usual self, friendly and upbeat. When Louis wheels around holding his glass of water, he’s beaming so brightly that even Louis’s smile becomes a shade more genuine than he’d intended.

“Hi.” He quickly hands Harry his glass of water. “Thirsty?”

“Sure.” Harry toasts the glass, takes a sip.

It’s not quite fair, the way the long, pale column of his throat undulates as he swallows, the way his curls fall so sweetly down his shoulders. It’s also not quite fair that he’s wearing black skinny jeans that hug his hips so intimately, or a thin red shirt haphazardly buttoned low on his chest. He is standing right in front of Louis, close enough to touch – close enough to bring in for a kiss – but Louis just clears his throat, takes a step back.

“Right. Well, welcome to Ed’s humble abode – our studio for the evening.”

Harry nods appreciatively as Louis leads him into the studio space. He pulls up a stool from the corner, settles himself next to the laptop as Louis sits down at the keyboard.

“This is quite the set-up,” Harry remarks. “How do you know Ed?”

“Met him at an industry thing I went to about a year ago with El, because he and I spent the most time at the bar avoiding everyone else,” Louis says. “We exchanged numbers. Later I listened to his stuff, which was fucking excellent, so I sent him a line – we got drinks a few times with some mates of his, became friends. He ribs me every so often about how I don’t write enough anymore, which is why I have a key. Supposed to inspire myself or whatever. He’s on tour right now anyway, so he doesn’t give a shit that we’re here. Though I did let him know that we were.”

“Ed _is_ amazing,” Harry agrees fervently.

“If he weren’t on tour, I probably would’ve asked him to help me with Taylor’s song,” Louis muses. Catches himself. “For the record, I’m glad he’s on tour, because I got to ask you.”

Fortunately, Harry doesn’t seem offended. “I think it all worked out for the best.”

“Right.” Louis self-consciously rumples his hair. “Right, well. I want to record the piano part first and build the backing track around it.”

“Okay,” Harry says serenely.

Louis immediately engrosses himself in the keyboard, playing the music that’s been coalescing in his mind for days with steady hands, confident and clean. He makes a few minor changes as he goes along, feeling his way through the melodic line, but it’s coming together better than he could have hoped for. He’s even smiling as he moves to the drum set, puts on headphones to listen to the piano part as he nails down the simple beat.

This is the part of studio work that used to feel like making a miracle out of the inhospitable air. Louis remembers so many long nights with Liam, making the demos that later became the albums: the two of them giddy with the power of creating something that felt and sounded good. It’s different now – Louis himself is different, more restrained and less impulsive – but the studio still has a way of inspiring that old sense of magic and possibility, a gem in the rough emerging into view. Louis can still feel that, can know in his bones that he is making worthy art.

He feels it in Harry too, watching in silent fascination as Louis creates the layers of the backing track. Something is coming together in this tiny studio tonight, and it’s a little bit electrifying.

When Louis is finished putting the track together, the oxygen in the room feels scarce. He picks up a set of headphones and places it carefully over his ears, fixes Harry with blue eyes alight.

“Vocals,” he says, and picks up a second set of headphones, which he holds out to Harry.

Harry looks from the headphones to Louis and back, sudden horror gripping the placid sweetness of his face.

“What? I don’t—”

“It’s a _duet_ ,” Louis reminds him. “Two voices. And we’re all we’ve got.”

“I don’t sing,” Harry says emphatically.

“Rubbish, of course you do.” Louis pokes Harry’s forearm with the headphones, which he still hasn’t taken. “I heard you singing during _Just Dance_. You’re pretty good; you can hold a tune. It’s only a four minute song.”

“But I can’t read notes, or sing the opposite part of a duet, especially for a song I don’t know,” Harry insists. “I wasn’t formally trained in music or anything. And those harmonies you did for the end—”

“It’s easier than you think,” Louis says patiently. “My voice is higher than yours, so I’ll do Taylor’s part, which is the main part; all you have to do is fit in with me. Here, this is how you’ll sing the chorus.” Louis sings the harmony line for him once, slowly.

“Lou, I can’t—”

“When you’ve got the track playing and the headphones on, you’ll figure it out,” Louis says.

“Taylor is going to hear this – tomorrow!” Harry’s eyes go wide and glassy, like the reality of this has only now hit home to him. Louis has to exert considerable energy, holding back his smile.

“She is, and she will love it. Come on, sing back that chorus. Then we’ll go over the back half.”

Harry cooperates as Louis helps him through it, but the nerves are plain on his face, in the tension around his mouth. He can repeat after Louis after a few tries, but he stares uneasily at the headphones Louis forced him to hold, as though they’re going to choke him. Louis does the best he can with him, then gives him a microphone.

“It’s a four minute song, and you know all the words because you wrote them,” Louis reminds him. “Here’s your cheat sheet—” the lyrics, both their parts clearly marked “—and let’s get this over with.”

“I can’t believe you’re making me sing,” Harry grumbles, putting the headphones on over his ears.

“It’ll sound weird if I layer my own voice!” Louis says.

“It’ll sound weirder with _me singing_.”

“It won’t, don’t be a ninny,” Louis says dismissively. “I’m starting the track.”

The piano fills Louis’s ears through the headphones, an insulated world of notes filling up the spaces inside his skull. He breathes into it, eyes closed, opens with Taylor’s lines.

_Making little conversation,_

_So long I’ve been waiting,_

_To let go of myself and feel alive_

He opens his eyes to make sure Harry cues himself in, but he didn’t need to worry: as Louis had predicted, hearing the music in his ears has brought a change over Harry, washed away the nerves. His baritone enters just in time, a little unsteady at first but rich and sweet—

So many nights I thought it over,  
Told myself I kind of liked her,  
But there was something missing in her eyes

They make purposeful eye contact, grayish blue on emerald green; an involuntary chill settles in the base of Louis’s spine—

I was stumbling, looking in the dark  
With an empty heart  
And you say you feel the same

Louis asks, _Could we ever be enough?_

Harry answers, _Maybe we could be enough._

Their voices complement each other well, surprisingly well, the gravelly warble of Harry’s voice grounding Louis’s higher tone, purposely reaching higher to match Taylor’s range. And Harry is even smiling, as they watch each other, guide each other through the most complicated runs. Harry makes a few missteps – Louis sees him wince when he hears them – but they sound good together. They fit right, even when they stumble.

The piano outro gently ends the song, and Harry is the first to take off his headphones, eyes round as coins.

“That…was a real song,” he says, dumbstruck.

“I know.” Louis can’t help it; he’s grinning like a loon. “I _know_.”

“I want to do it one more time,” Harry says. “Get that part at the verse right.”

“Yeah, let’s try it again.” Louis’s finger hovers over the button, smile turning affectionately mischievous. “I told you you’d be fine. I told you that you could sing.”

“And _I_ told _you_ that we were going to write a kickass song before your deadline, so our ‘I told you so’s’ cancel out,” Harry decides.

“Oh, all right. Here, let’s go again.”

This time, Louis closes his eyes and doesn’t open them, loses himself in this piano, in this song. He _feels_ it, for the first time – forgets the technical things and lets the words Harry wrote froth like an active sea in his throat. He lets the ache of them, the earnest need, fill him up like it’s nothing to be ashamed of.

Making little conversation  
So long, I’ve been waiting  
To let go of myself and feel alive

And Harry, anything but fragile, his voice confident and true—

So many nights I thought it over  
Told myself I kinda liked her  
But there was something missing in her eyes

Louis doesn’t have to see Harry to feel him in the lyric, the twinkling piano notes, the breath before they sing together, Harry low and strong, Louis high and delicate—

I was stumbling, looking in the dark  
With an empty heart  
And you say you feel the same

Louis, tenuously: _Could we ever be enough?_

Harry, spiritedly: _Maybe we could be enough_.

And it’s all right  
Calling out for somebody to hold tonight  
When you’re lost, I’ll find the way  
I’ll be your light  
You’ll never feel like you’re alone  
I’ll make this feel like home

Harry lingers just half a breath longer on the last word than Louis, the warmth in his voice crackling like a contained wildfire, unexpectedly pinching at the sinews of Louis’s heart. His voice is all the tenderer for it—

So hot that I couldn’t take it  
Wanna wake up and see your face and  
Remember how good it was being here last night

Harry answers, his own smile curling into the words like ivy around a tree branch—

Still high with a little feeling  
I see the smile as it starts to creep in  
It was there, I saw it in your eyes

Together, they admit—

I was stumbling, looking in the dark  
With an empty heart  
And you say you feel the same

Louis, hopefully: _Could we ever be enough?_

Harry, certainly: _Baby, we could be enough._

And the back half flows so easily from there, a genuine joy welling up unmistakably in their tone, a joy that wasn’t there the last time or any of the times they’ve run through this before. Louis’s eyes are open now, his smile audible in the music and visibly turning the sun on behind his eyes. His very frame radiates with light. And Harry, Harry who physically cannot smile any bigger, his eyes are like gems reflecting back the sky and whole worlds of happiness – a brilliance that makes Louis forget to be timid or afraid or anything other than tremendously happy.

The song ends; their headphones come off. One moment Louis hastens to save the recording, and the next he’s in Harry’s arms – hugging, then, inexplicably kissing.

Louis hadn’t intended for them to go there again, but Harry is _there_ , his whole body seeming to envelop Louis’s and swallow away the awkwardness with which they walked in the door. The song is done, and it is beautiful, and Harry is so beautiful pressed up against Louis this way that he just…gives in, he _wants_. He lets himself be held, and kissed, and pushed down to the floor on top of a tangle of wires, which cut into his back, as Harry straddles his hips without apology.

“Wish we didn’t have to give that to her,” Harry breathes into Louis’s mouth, holding Louis’s face in his hands. “Wish the song could just be ours.”

“That version is ours,” Louis sighs, his hands squeezing Harry’s bum.

“Are you mine?” This is the first time Harry’s voice wavers a little; he nuzzles his nose against Louis’s, lips parted and waiting. “I’ll be yours, if you want.”

Louis is the one to close the distance again, kiss him until they’re both dizzy with it. With Harry settled on top of him, their hips aligned and grinding like gears that almost fit, Louis can feel Harry’s erection, feel the way this is going and building, the heat that is winding through both of them. It’s so much so fast, right here on Ed’s floor. Louis breaks the kiss, brushes Harry’s curls out of his face with quivering fingers.

“Do you have a car?” he asks.

“No – got a ride.”

“Then come with me,” Louis tells him, his nose brushing against Harry’s cheek. “You can stay, because we have the same meeting in the morning, just…I can’t offer you more, tonight. Not more than this. Is that okay?”

Louis blinks up at him, biting down on his lower lip. But Harry’s expression is infinitely tender, his kiss to the corner of Louis’s mouth feather soft.

“Of course it’s okay,” he says. He kisses Louis’s chin, the tip of his nose, the space between his eyebrows. “Anything you want.”

Louis is admittedly relieved, as they kiss a little while longer and then get up, Harry first and helping Louis to his feet. The urgent heat cools down to candlelight, and it is so nice just to hold Harry’s hand – their fingers intertwined, Louis’s smaller hand tucked safely into Harry’s.

Louis tidies up after them, saving a digital copy of the song on his phone and leaving a thank you note on the Mac in the studio, locks up the apartment and heads out to his car with Harry in tow. The silence between them is companionable, a little heady after what they’ve accomplished tonight. Harry doesn’t seem to want to let go of Louis’s hand even as he drives, their fingers still loosely connected as Louis breaks every single speed limit on the way home.

They go upstairs to Louis’s apartment, where Louis changes into sweatpants and a t-shirt and tries to look for something that’ll fit Harry. He finds a t-shirt that’s a little big on him. Harry unbuttons his red shirt and puts the t-shirt on right there, and kicks off his pants to leave just his boxers, a plain black.

“Thank you,” he says, tucking his hair behind his ears. “Do you want me on the couch?”

Louis considers it, but not for long.

“It’s a big bed. We can share it.” _Shared it just last night_ are the unsaid words. But Harry smiles without ulterior motive.

“Okay,” he says simply, and climbs into bed next to Louis, on the sheets he’d changed himself just this morning.

\--

It doesn’t take Harry long to fall asleep, his faint snuffling snores filling the room in a matter of minutes. He remains respectfully on the left side of the bed, curled like a comma towards the wall, while Louis lies flat on his back on the right side of the bed. He wants to sleep – his body is exhausted – but his brain is too awake, buzzing with the last half hour and all it entailed.

This is so much – even here, not touching in Louis’s bed. It’s _too much_. The book, that secret, the domesticity of the omelet today and sleeping here the night before and spending nearly everyday in each other’s company for a week that’s felt like a lifetime. Everything as Louis knew it changing all at once, all on the fulcrum of Harry Styles. Like the last eight years somehow don’t matter anymore, because his senses only came so blazingly alive that night he and Harry went to the diner and Harry told him his life’s story. And the fire in his nerve endings hasn’t abated since.

He doesn’t know how to do this, how to fall so completely into someone else’s life. He doesn’t know what this means, or what Harry wants. They’re meeting Taylor tomorrow and then that’s it, yes or no, the end of the line. The future after that is a big black hole, capable of being filled with anything. And even if Louis could fill it with anything he wanted, he doesn’t know what it is that he wants – doesn’t know how to want anything, really, after this much time with his heart on ice.

Because he doesn’t want Harry on his couch, far away and anonymous, but he also doesn’t want Harry in his bed, where they’ll end up curving into each other in the night and wake up tangled, all colliding limbs and sleepy warmth, four lips hungry with lust when there’s no audition to go to, no excuses.

Is there a way for Harry to stay in the room but not overwhelm? Is there a way to want just enough so that it doesn’t hurt? Because even more than not knowing how to want, Louis doesn’t know how to hurt any more, and survive it.

That chill of vulnerability rattles the cage of his ribs again, though the duvet is hot with both of their body heat. It is so cold, and he is so nervous. They aren’t even touching, but Louis still feels like he’s dangling off the edge of a precipice, Harry both holding him up and waiting for him below in the shadowy abyss.

They’ve become so close so damn fast. Louis wants pause, but he also wants more, and it makes him lightheaded with contradiction. He’s let Harry sleep in his bed and now he doesn’t know what it means.

It takes Louis a long, long while before sleep can extinguish the frazzled fireworks in his brain, leave him in peace.


	10. Chapter 10

 

Louis’s alarm clock startles them both from sleep on Tuesday morning at seven thirty.

Louis instinctively flails to put the alarm on snooze, but he’s awake before his hand hits the button. And Harry – who drifted from the left side to the center of the bed, curled towards Louis without touching – sits up like there is a spring in his spine. He looks down at Louis, who looks up at him, and their mouths are two grim, serious lines.

Because today is The Day. They see Taylor in an hour and a half.

Louis lets Harry take the bathroom first, goes outside to the kitchen to eat a banana and text Eleanor.  _ Awake. Nervous. You? _

Eleanor’s reply comes within the minute.  _ You’ll be fine. _ Then,  _ Need a ride? _

_ No, will drive. _

_ Harry meeting us there? _

Louis’s stomach floods with ice.  _ I’m driving him. _

_ Ok. See you soon xxx _

He sighs, takes a too-big bite of banana and chews miserably.

Harry emerges from the bedroom a few minutes later, wearing yesterday’s clothes, his hair freshly washed and smelling like one of Louis’s colognes. He looks as tense as Louis feels, face even ghostlier than usual, expression pinched and bereft of its usual playfulness. He seems like he wants to say something, but Louis doesn’t give him the opportunity, walking straight back into the bedroom to wash up and get dressed.

A shower helps, though it’s not enough to fully clear his head. He pulls on his favorite black skinny jeans and a blue sweater, spends a little time artfully ruffling his hair. He decides to wear socks with his Converse, just for today. And he puts on his decent cologne, for luck. Or something.

When he comes back out to the kitchen, Harry is peeling his second banana. His fingers grip the thing too tightly. Louis sighs, catching Harry’s attention.

“Normally, I’d offer you a proper breakfast, but I’m told that Taylor is going to make something for the occasion.”

“That’s nice of her,” Harry says.

“I suppose it is,” Louis muses. “But then she’ll have to clean actual vomit off her hardwood floor, whereas if she rejects me on an empty stomach, I’ll only dry-heave.”

“She won’t reject you,” Harry tells him.

“Yeah, well. You never know.” Louis sighs heavily. “You ready to go?”

“Mhmm.” Harry puts the banana down on the counter. “Let’s go.”

There isn’t much to say, as Louis locks up the apartment and leads them to the underground parking garage where he stores his car. Harry is quiet, staring out of the window as they join the weekday downtown traffic, travel in fits and starts through New York gridlock. His profile is beautiful and brooding, the long slope of his nose contrasted with his rosebud of a mouth, pouting at the cityscape, bathed in golden morning light. But he doesn’t look at Louis, doesn’t even fiddle with the radio, instead letting them stew in their own silence. Louis chews on the inside of his mouth, cursing every red light and every loaded, unhappy second in this car. He can’t help but remember them here just last night – fingers intertwined, the two of them lost in each other.

So after some time, Louis decides to ask, “Is Gemma getting concerned at all, with how little you’ve been working the last few days?”

Harry finally tears his attention from the window. His pinched expression softens into a grin – because he is a good sport, always, no matter how obnoxious Louis can get.

“She’s actually been begging me to take a vacation for at least a year,” he answers. “I’m supposed to report back today after the meeting, but she’s otherwise been very good about it. Such are the benefits of working for an independent business run by your sister.”

“She must be right sick of her own bakery by now with how much she’s had to cover for your lazy, work-skiving arse.” Louis’s tone is dry, but his eyes are affectionate.

“Well, it also helps that I’m working with you,” Harry says, smile dimpling. “She thinks you’re worth the extra labor.”

“She’s too good to me.” And Louis means it, thinking of the cheesecake he’s still got saved in his fridge.

But Harry’s mind is elsewhere. “I haven’t met Taylor yet…what’s she like?”

Louis considers. “She’s…well, okay, she greeted El and me like we were long-lost relatives returned to her after the war. Which was a bit odd. And she gave us homemade strawberry lemonade and sandwiches while telling me how much she loved what Liam and I wrote for One Direction. But she was also really direct about what she wanted, which I respected.”

“Do you like her?” Harry asks.

“She seems too good to be true,” Louis admits, “but yeah, I suppose I liked her well enough.”

“Did you know her while you were in One Direction?”

“Not well. Shook her hand at awards shows and the like, but that was it.”

“She was amazing in concert,” Harry says. “Gem dragged us all to see her, and it was a great show.”

“I find her early stuff pretty trite, though,” Louis says. “For all she was getting praised for writing her own lyrics, they weren’t…I mean, they weren’t exactly groundbreaking.”

“They wouldn’t be, because they weren’t written for you,” Harry remarks. When Louis raises an eyebrow, he explains, “She was writing for girls like herself and my sister – girls who didn’t dance like Britney or relate to the angsty adult pop stars. She wrote for girls with crushes and girls who wanted to feel understood. It’s why Gems saw Taylor twice and you lot once.”

Louis claps a hand to his chest. “Rude! Low blow, Curly.”

“You know what I mean,” Harry says patiently, dimple prominent in his cheek again.

And that’s the thing – Louis does. He knows exactly what Harry means. Because Harry sees the essential goodness of people without cynically fixating on their quirks. He is thoughtful, overflowing with empathy – just a good fucking person, while Louis gets hung up on the stubborn narrow way he views the world. The inside of his mouth is a little bitter, as he slows to a red light.

“She ought to hire you for her PR, mate,” Louis says at last. “The adoring magazines have nothing on you.”

“She isn’t hard to like!” Harry laughs.

“You’re not hard to like,” Louis counters absentmindedly.

The car is quiet for a beat, like they missed a step going downstairs. But when Louis glances at Harry’s face, he is looking down at his lap, his smile somehow private. And when Harry is about to glance up at Louis, Louis quickly schools his face into neutrality, runs a hand through his hair and stares out at the road.

Fits and starts, the two of them – going along fine until an unexpected snag in the fabric, puckering them back into uncertainty.

Harry looks like he wants to say something, but doesn’t. So Louis doesn’t either.

\--

They reach Taylor’s apartment in good time, by about eight forty-five. Eleanor is already there, wearing black cigarette pants and a maroon blazer, leaning against her car and doing something on her phone. She grins as Louis parks behind her.

“Hey, you two,” she says, when Louis gets out of the car. She gives him a hug, then hugs Harry, who follows close behind Louis. “You doing okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” Louis mumbles.

“What we recorded last night was too good for her to refuse,” Harry says.

“I believe it,” Eleanor says, her reassuring smile mostly for Louis. “I heard a rough cut on the piano and it was gorgeous.”

“I’m excited to meet Taylor,” Harry adds. His tone is determinedly buoyant, his shoulder bumping lightly against Louis’s and lingering there. “Gems had me swear that I’d get an autograph for her.”

“Taylor would definitely help you out with that,” Eleanor says with a giggle.

“Lou said she’s made breakfast?” Harry asks.

“That’s what she told me,” Eleanor says. “She called me to ask about dietary restrictions.” She pauses. “Harry, you don’t have any of those, do you?”

“Nah, I’m a bottomless pit,” Harry assures her. “And Lou wouldn’t let me eat breakfast, so. I’m ready.” Harry’s hand brushes against Louis’s wrist. “Are we going up now, or should we wait?”

“Might as well go up now,” Eleanor says, checking her watch. “It’s ten to, and that’s acceptably early.”

Louis, who appears to have lost all powers of speech, simply nods.

Harry leads the way into the building, beaming with a full charm offensive at the unsuspecting security guard, who looks like he’s been blasted by pure sunshine. Louis walks with Eleanor, her hand steady against the small of his back. As they head upstairs in the private elevator, and Louis’s breaths are all the more controlled and shallow, Eleanor’s hand finds Louis’s, squeezes twice like she always does – once firm, for strength, and once soft, for love. They’re in this together, always. She doesn’t let go of his hand until the elevator doors open on Taylor’s floor – where Taylor is already waiting for them, beaming with a full charm offensive to match Harry’s.

“Louis, Eleanor!” She greets them first, a hug and a kiss on their cheeks. “And I’m sorry, you are?”

“Harry Styles,” he says, putting out his hand to shake – but she pulls him right in for a hug.

“Nice to meet you, Harry!” she says, kissing his cheek too. “Welcome!”

She takes the three of them into her apartment, which smells like heaven because of the breakfast spread she’s laid out in the kitchen. She’s made spiced scrambled eggs, French toast, and sausage, plus a jug of homemade lemonade. Taylor hands out plates like it’s a children’s birthday party, and encourages them to help themselves. Harry happily fills his plate with some of everything, while Eleanor sticks with eggs and Louis takes a single sausage. He’s in an almost zombie-like trance, about to go to the table that Taylor has neatly set out with a yellow-and-white checkered tablecloth and fresh flowers, but Harry stops him and wordlessly drops a dollop of scrambled egg into his plate.

They sit down at the table, Taylor in no particular hurry as Louis’s insides knot up and double in on each other. She sits at the head of the rectangular table; Eleanor sits to her left, Louis to her right, Harry beside Louis. Taylor beams around at everyone, then says to Harry, “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Eleanor mentioned Louis was working with a lyricist?”

“Yes,” Harry says, almost dropping his fork in haste. “Yeah, I helped with the lyrics.”

“Do I know your work?” she asks conversationally, swallowing a neat spoonful of scrambled egg.

“’Fraid not. This is the first song I’ve ever written. Or, helped write.”

“Shall we play it now, or do you want until after you’ve eaten?” Taylor asks.

“Now would probably be best,” Eleanor interjects quickly, as Louis mutely takes out his phone and finds the track. Taylor chuckles.

“What is it called?”

“Louis has been calling it ‘Home,’” Harry answers.

“Okay.” Taylor lays down her fork at the edge of her half-filled plate. “Go ahead.”

Louis’s eyes seek out Harry’s – then he presses play.

The room is utterly silent, a vacuum filled only with the opening notes of Louis’s piano intro. Louis drops his gaze to his lap, ears burning with embarrassment and nerves. He grips his knees, tries to remember how to breathe in and out. Harry stares at his plate, his expression blank and faraway, but beneath the tablecloth his hand tentatively finds Louis’s thigh – their fingers overlapping, Louis tense and Harry gentle. Eleanor watches Taylor’s face closely, searching her for a reaction – but Taylor would make a world-champion poker player with that face, blue eyes and perfect mouth giving nothing away.

And so it goes, for just under four minutes.

When the outro fades into the thick stillness of Taylor’s apartment, nobody breathes. Harry’s hand is frozen on top of Louis’s; the two of them can only look to Taylor, who blinks once, twice, deliberate and slow.

But then her face breaks into a wide grin – and she says, “I love it.”

Louis’s stomach plummets to his toes; Harry’s hand clenches down on his own.

“Do you?” Louis asks, and Taylor nods vigorously, bringing the oxygen back into all of their lungs.

“I do,” she says, smiling at all three of them in turn. “I really do –  _ Louis _ . It’s even more than what I wanted. It’s perfect. I can’t wait to learn it. May I play it again?”

“Of course.” Louis pushes his phone towards her, chest still cold with emotion. She lets the song begin again, and this time her face is openly delighted; she hums along with the chorus, her soprano sweetness fitting her part exactly. Eleanor and Louis’s eyes meet, wide and astounded. Taylor sings along with the final chorus, before the song ends and she’s looking positively giddy.

“I think this is the album closer I’ve been looking for,” she says. “Nothing had felt quite right, but this – yes, this is going to be the last song on  _ the album _ .” She pauses. “Is that okay with you?”

“Sure, fine,” Louis says faintly.

“I also want you to perform this with me at my livestream,” she says. “Right now, it looks like it’ll be with Yahoo, on May 30, which is just over a month away. I’ll be doing the lead single, but then I want us to sing ‘Home.’ What do you think?”

“Okay.” Louis is too dazed to do anything but agree.

“Wonderful.” Taylor pushes Louis’s phone back to him, and now her tone is business-like. “Everything is going to move kind of quickly now, so I want you to be prepared. I am going to be in L.A. this week, like I said, and I’ll be back Saturday morning. Saturday afternoon, I want you to meet me at my studio – I’ll give Eleanor the details – and we’re going to record the duet. I have other promotional duties to attend to afterwards, but we’ll have to rehearse for the live performance, plus one rehearsal the day before the livestream with the band.”

She continues with scheduling – the livestream, the appearances, Louis giving the press a few flattering tidbits about Taylor and the new album – but Louis tunes her out, incapable of retaining any more information. His brain is awash with that simple, stunning statement that’s just changed everything again:  _ I loved it _ .

She loves it.

Taylor Swift loves the song he co-wrote enough to close her comeback album with it.

He should be delighted. He should be ecstatic, ebullient, profoundly relieved. He should be like Harry, loading up on second helpings since breakfast is now easier to eat, or Eleanor, who can’t stop smiling, her face the happiest and most open that Louis has ever seen it.

But tension coils low in Louis’s gut, simmering with heat. Not only is this livestream and writing credit threatening to drag Louis back into the public eye he’d sworn he’d stay away from – a sobering prospect that keeps his head and feet firmly anchored in gravity – but then there’s also…Harry. Harry, who is speaking amiably to Taylor, but whose bright-eyed smile somehow isn’t really for her. Harry, who leans in to hear Taylor better, but only comes closer into Louis’s space, a strange and semi-conscious understanding between them that renders Louis quiet, still, like a rabbit sensing a foreign presence overhead without being quite sure how to categorize it.

Harry asks Taylor to autograph a picture for Gemma, but his arm knocks against Louis as he passes her the paper and pen. And the scent of him, sharply sweet beneath the layer of cologne, brings Louis back to yesterday morning – the bedroom, the thick air, their sweat and their sex on the sheets, and Louis leaving. Running away.

Too much. It’s too much all at once.

He doesn’t speak unless spoken to, his head whirling. It is Eleanor who finally extricates them from Taylor’s hospitality at ten o’clock, making their excuses while thanking her for everything.

She hugs Harry, then Eleanor, and then finally Louis, smelling like spiced egg and rosewater as she kisses him on both cheeks. She thanks them all for coming, tells Louis she will see him on Saturday to record “Home.” She invites Harry to the studio too, graceful and charismatic and relentlessly cheerful as she sees them out of her apartment. She acts as though the world as Louis knows it hasn’t toppled on its axis.

No one says a word, as Eleanor, Harry and Louis step into the elevator to go back downstairs. It’s not until they are outside on the street, in the glorious April sunshine, that Eleanor finally abandons restraint and flings herself on top of Louis in a squeal.

“Lou, you colossal tosser, you’ve done it!” She presses enormous sloppy kisses on both his cheeks, doesn’t bother to wipe them off. “You got the job, I can’t fucking believe it!”

“Neither can I, honestly,” Louis says, perfectly happy to let her knock the wind out of him.

“I told you,  _ I told you _ ,” she says, throwing her arms around him again, nuzzling her face into his shoulder. “God, I’m so happy for you.”

Louis hugs her too, revels in the warmth of her and her obvious triumph – but his eyes are for Harry, who stands on the sidewalk in his purple pants, toeing the concrete with his boots and smiling at Louis with such intimacy and tenderness that something gives way inside his chest, a brittle resolve he’d been clutching so hard without even realizing. He lets go of Eleanor and lets himself collapse into Harry’s arms for a hug that is different from hers, more careful but also more reckless, time slower and hands quivering, their cheekbones bumping as Louis hugs from the shoulders, Harry from the waist.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” Louis murmurs into the shell of Harry’s ear. “Thank you.”

“Thank  _ you _ .” Harry’s lips mouth so softly against Louis’s neck.

The words are heavy, soaked with everything they’ve shared, everything they haven’t said. It is almost surreal, a glimpse of this much baggage on an open sidewalk.

Louis lets go first, takes an awkward step back. He clears his throat, turns back to Eleanor. “We should celebrate properly,” he says. “Drinks, tonight. On me.”

“Normally, I’d say yes, and insist that it’s on me, but I don’t think it’s a good idea tonight,” Eleanor declares.

“Oh?” Harry seems perplexed.

“Well, Louis has an early start to his morning, is all.” Her tone is mischievous enough that Louis is instantly suspicious.

“Why would I have an early start?” he asks.

“Because…you’re going to be shooting  _ Teen Wolf _ tomorrow!” Eleanor laughs maniacally as Louis and Harry stare. “Surprise!”

“When did you find out?” Louis asks, dumbfounded.

“This morning, actually,” she says. “I was dying to tell you, but I figured it would be best to wait until after this meeting. You were stressed enough as it was.”

“Congratulations, Lou!” Harry beams, claps a hand on Louis’s shoulder. “I’ll have to tell Riley. She’ll be so excited.”

“His niece,” Louis tells Eleanor. “She’s a, um. Big fan of the show.”

“Well, now I am too!” Eleanor gives Louis another hug. “The shoot starts at seven AM, so whatever you want to do today, just bear that in mind. The schedule is tight for them, because they usually film in L.A. but are on location here until Friday.”

“In that case, we can day-drink at my place,” Louis says. “We’ll have to make a pit-stop for reinforcements, but no bartender will judge you from my living room.”

“That sounds like fun,” Harry says, already apologetic, “but I actually need to go to the bakery for the day. Gems is on her own, and we’ve had a couple of special orders coming in, so. So I’m going to catch an Uber and go there. I’m sorry, Lou.”

“Don’t apologize,” Louis says, though his voice is a little rough. “I understand. I could even, um. Give you a ride, if you wanted. Why pay an Uber driver to find out your place of work and murder you while you make cupcakes?”

“But any of my customers could do that.” Harry grins, tone laced with fondness. “All of them know where I work.”

“Nonetheless, let’s not add the Uber driver to the potential list of murderers,” Louis says. “I’ll take you.” He turns back to Eleanor. “Meet you after for a Central Park day, El?”

There is a very interesting, knowing look to Eleanor’s eyes, the set of her mouth. Like she can see right through Louis, put him together like a puzzle for toddlers. He can already tell they’re going to have to talk about this when they’re alone, and the thought fills his chest with overcast clouds. But thankfully, for now she nods.

“Sure, Lou. I’ll be at our spot.”

“Thanks, love.” He squeezes her shoulder. “See you?”

“See you.” She blows him a kiss, and gets into her car. And then she’s off down the quiet, tree-lined street, leaving Harry and Louis where they were on the sidewalk, watching her go.

They face each other, the space between their bodies simultaneously too close and not close enough. Louis is tense and wound up tight, while Harry’s face is inscrutable, his posture straight and true for once. How was it easier to fall into him with Eleanor watching than it is when there is nothing, no one, no witnesses? How is it weird for them now, when they’ve been alone in each other’s company for days and days – when they already know what the other tastes like?

Their relationship is in too many places at once – professionals, confidants, lovers, somehow still strangers. They know each other too well, but can’t fathom what to do now, what they’re allowed to say to each other. The mess seems to converge here, standing beside Louis’s car, like the day has fallen away and left the way forward swallowed in darkness.

Louis’s shoulders curl inward, making him look small. He should go to the driver’s side, open the door and drive Harry to the bakery, but he can’t make his feet obey him. He stares at the ground, sees Harry’s boots approach from there, touch the tips of his Converse. He smells a little like the last sausage he ate, but mostly himself, the smell Louis knows. The smell still lingering in Louis’s sheets.

When Harry’s finger gently tilts Louis’s face up, he doesn’t fight. Harry’s eyes are so green up close.

This kiss feels a lot like their first: the setting, near Louis’s car, but also the careful way that Harry handles Louis, like every touch is conditional and Louis might shatter at any moment. All those things they’ve done and haven’t discussed – sex, vulnerability, nights curled up in each other, this bond that ties their heartstrings together like double-knotted shoelaces – seem to color the air sepia.

Harry kisses like he’s trying to understand, like the answer to his questions is somewhere on the roof of Louis’s mouth, smeared across the surface of Louis’s teeth. And Louis lets himself be searched, because he, too, wants to understand – wants to be understood, here in this place where everything is unraveling and nothing is making sense. Painful as it is to not know what’s happening, it’s worse not to touch. It’s worse to consider dropping Harry off at the bakery today and never seeing him again. So Louis sucks on Harry’s lower lip, nipping its fullness to ask him wordlessly to stay just a minute longer.

It takes Harry a long time to break that kiss, and even then he rests his forehead against Louis’s, like he’s unwilling to put any more distance between them.

“I do have to go see Gem today, Lou, I’m sorry,” he says, nuzzling against Louis’s nose. One more kiss, to the corner of his mouth. “I’m so sorry.”

Louis tucks his chin in, takes a small step away. “It’s, um. I told you, I understand.”

And only now does he abruptly force his feet to move, open the driver’s side door and start the car. Harry gets in on the passenger side, looking troubled.

They are quiet for several minutes, Louis driving and Harry unwillingly tearing his gaze from Louis’s face to stare out the window. It’s worse than this morning, worse than any of their silences, because they should be happy about what they’ve achieved today and they aren’t, they can’t be, it doesn’t feel like it matters. There aren’t words; they’re out of words. Taylor liked the song, and this feels like the middle but also the end, and Louis’s head is too full and too woozy to think straight. He drives with remarkable calm, for someone containing such turbulence.

He doesn’t plan on saying anything, but Harry eventually asks, carefully, “What’s a Central Park day?”

Louis spares him a confused glance.

“Just, like – Eleanor said she’d meet you in your usual spot, so it sounded like a tradition or something,” he mumbles. He sounds chastened in a way that melts the ashes of Louis’s resolve even further.

“Yeah, it is,” he says, eyes on the road. “Sometimes when we fancy a break from life, there’s this spot we like under this one tree. And we bring food and beer, and we eat, and people-watch, and make up stories about everyone we see. Sometimes we have a theme, sometimes we bet on whether a jogger will trip or not, sometimes we share our food with the birds. And then we take a walk down this one route we like, before we go our separate ways. We’ve done it for as long as I’ve lived here, just…it’s a place we like to go.”

It’s also the place where they have their more serious conversations – lying on the grass in good weather, letting down their defenses. It’s about safety as much as anything else, out in the open but insulated in each other, their secrets folding into their small talk. It’s calming, and Louis needs that now – needs to process what Taylor’s decision means for him. He prefers vigorous day-drinking, of course, but a Central Park day is the next best thing.

Maybe it’s better he and Harry spend some time apart today anyway.

Harry nods, gaze trained forward and away from Louis’s face. “Sounds like a nice tradition,” he says. His tone is light, but there is the faintest trace of a quiver that gives him away.

“We could, um. Celebrate another night,” Louis offers. “Go out for drinks tomorrow, maybe.”

“Sure,” Harry says quickly. “Sure, yeah, I mean. You’ll probably be busy celebrating with your sister tonight anyway.”

“My sister?” Louis looks genuinely confused.

“The one who lives in Brooklyn. Lottie, right?”

“Why would I be celebrating with Lottie?” Louis asks.

“Because she’s your sister, and she’s the only one who lives nearby?” Now Harry sounds confused too.

Louis opens his mouth and then closes it, stares out at the road and tries to figure out how on earth to explain this. But Harry beats him to the punch, his eyes widening.

“Were you not going to tell her?” he practically demands.

“Of course I was!” Louis sputters, indignant. “I just found out myself five minutes ago, Curly, no need to judge.”

“I wasn’t judging you! I just—” Harry stops himself there, takes a deep breath. “I just think that your sister would want to celebrate this with you, like my sister will want to celebrate this with me. Because a song on Taylor’s album – that’s huge, and exciting, and we deserve to be proud of ourselves for it.”

“I  _ am _ proud,” Louis mumbles, but his voice sounds petulant to his own ears.

“I don’t know why you wouldn’t be,” Harry says, tone like crumpled silk.

Louis bites down hard on his lower lip, weaves in and out of traffic with a little more edge, barely squeezing past yellow lights. Harry appears not to have anything more to say, because he sits quiet and still in the front seat, staring out the window again. Soon enough, Louis pulls up in front of Knead to Know, with its colorful sign and the rainbow heart stuck to the glass window. He puts the car in park, but it takes him several endless seconds before he can muster the ability to meet the unflinching green of Harry’s eyes.

“I’ll, um. See you, then, I suppose,” Louis says softly.

“I hope so,” Harry says. His expression is complicated, guilty and awkward and defiant. “Good luck with filming, Louis. Enjoy the park.”

He opens the car door and lets himself out, doesn’t look back as he disappears inside the bakery.

Louis drives off before he can contemplate this too deeply.

\--

Eleanor is already under their tree, sandwiches and beer in tow, by the time Louis parks his car and joins her. She makes a pretty picture – her aviator sunglasses and pale lipstick, the sun bringing out the copper in her long brown hair. Louis settles in beside her, opens his beer immediately and takes a long sip.

“Cheers,” she says with a chuckle, raising her beer bottle in his direction before taking a sip too.

“I don’t even know what to say,” Louis admits. “She…went for it.”

“I didn’t doubt it, but I must say, it’s a weight off my shoulders anyway,” she says.

“And now she wants me to perform at her livestream.”

“That’s a real compliment, Lou, I hope you know that.” Eleanor turns to fix him with her sunglass-ed stare so that he knows she’s serious. “This is her releasing your song as an unofficial single. At a time when the press is completely all over every breath she breathes.”

“Not my song, though,” Louis says, unwrapping his sandwich. “ _ Our  _ song. Mine and Harry’s.”

“Yes, of course,” she says, nodding. “You and Harry.” She pauses just long for it to be both meaningful and annoying. “What’s going on with you and Harry, anyway?”

Louis chooses this moment to tuck into his sandwich with an enormous bite that takes at least thirty seconds to fully chew.

But Eleanor waits him out, sandwich still unopened in her lap. When Louis’s mouth is clear, she informs him, “I really have no idea how you got that  _ Teen Wolf  _ role when you can’t act for shit.”

“Nothing’s happened,” Louis snaps.

“Is that the problem? That nothing’s happened?” Eleanor is damn near inscrutable with those sunglasses over her eyes.

“Why does your mind go  _ there  _ right away?” Louis huffs testily into his sandwich. “Why can’t I just be upset that Taylor expects me to do a whole media thing with performances and interviews after the livestream?”

“Why would you be upset about that?” she asks.

“Oh, I don’t know. The fact that I haven’t spoken to a member of the press since the solo album? The fact that they’re going to want to know what I’ve been doing since One Direction, and I don’t want to talk about it? The fact that I’m suddenly going to be people’s business again? You can take your pick, really.”

“But we have time before all that happens,” Eleanor reminds him. “The livestream isn’t until the end of May, and press won’t be until after that. And anyway, we’re going to have a lot more control now, without Simon and the Syco machine pulling the strings. It’s not going to be like before, Lou. It won’t even be your own album you’re promoting this time, so you won’t have to do nearly as much.”

“But it’s like you said before – what comes next?” Louis says in a rush. “What am I supposed to do when Taylor’s done with me? Write more songs? Write my own album? Keep acting, or doing One Direction gigs? I just – I don’t know. I  _ don’t know _ . Her taking the song answered one big question, but raised a thousand other ones. Because I still can’t write on my own, El. I still need Ha—a lyricist.”

But she’s too quick; she caught the word he didn’t say.

“So  _ that’s _ the problem,” she says. “You want to keep Harry around.”

“It’s not a question of what I want or don’t want,” Louis says, taking another swig of beer. “It’s…he has a life. He has his bakery, and his family, and this insane thing I got him to do with me is finished now. She liked the song, so…that’s it. We have nothing in common anymore.”

“I saw the way he held you,” she says, eyes soft. “When we were outside Taylor’s apartment? Didn’t look like anything was finished to me.”

Louis can’t think of a response to that. He sticks to nursing his beer, taking another bite of his sandwich.

“Lou, I’ve known you half my life, so believe me when I say I know when you’re holding out on me,” Eleanor says. Her beer is open in her hand, but she hasn’t taken another sip. “What’s going on, really?”

She pushes her sunglasses to the top of her head, unleashing her full hazel stare upon him, concerned and sincere. And for a second, he is tempted, sorely tempted, to just tell her everything – from the first kiss in Gemma’s parking garage to sleeping in his bed twice to today, their muddled kiss, their even more muddled goodbye. He wants to tell her, and he knows she wants him to, this sunny day in the park after an unexpected rush of good news. The opportunity is present and tantalizing – to be honest, to let her in and lay everything bare.

But something snags in the back of Louis’s throats, blocks the words from his tongue. Something about the way Harry looked as he left Louis’s car, the way he had to wrench himself from their kiss – the way he just pushes so hard, with the lyrics and with Louis himself, and yet fell away into the bakery with yet another misunderstanding between them. Fits and starts, always – but more fits than starts.

It’s more than he knows how to articulate to himself, let alone to Eleanor. So, he doesn’t.

He says, “I want to take a walk and talk about something else.”

And Eleanor, eyes troubled but face neutral, asks him to wait until she’s finished with her beer before they do.

\--

Louis and Eleanor take a longer walk than usual, but even when they go their separate ways, he feels a marrow-deep itch niggling at him, a restlessness that feels like running in circles inside his own head. When he returns to his apartment, he changes out his Converse for his beat-up running shoes, his jeans for his shorts, and goes for a spontaneous run – a generally blue-moon occurrence. The midday sun is fiercely hot, too hot for April, but the wind is similarly relentless. Beautiful, but cutting. He runs and runs until his lungs feel like they’re going to burst, until he can’t anymore and he’s misjudged how far he is from home, and he has to take a cab back, heaving and sweating and bursting without relief. A shower – even a good wank, washed away with the water – aren’t quite enough.

Louis has lived too much life, and has far too much sense, to imagine himself as the full master of his own fate – but even so, his fragile grip upon his life seems to be slipping through his fingers, and he doesn’t know what to make of it.

Things are moving too quickly. This song, and Taylor, and his writing career rising from the dead. Harry, and all the time they have spent wrapped up in each other – like this has been months and months of build-up and catharsis, instead of just under two weeks of too little sleep and too much frosting. And now this  _ Teen Wolf  _ shoot in the morning to worry about. Although, as Louis changes once more into pajamas, perhaps being somebody else for a couple of days this week might actually do him some good.

It’s only a quarter to one in the afternoon, but the day has felt endless. Louis checks his fridge for any leftover takeout he can pick at, but all he finds is Gemma’s cheesecake, still waiting for him in its Tupperware container. A pang tolls through his bones, for something poignant he can’t put his finger on.

He ends up eating the cheesecake for lunch, effectively canceling out any health benefits from his spontaneous but emotionally unsatisfying run. And all he can think about is the way Harry was truly shocked to hear that Louis wouldn’t be spending time with his sister, when it was the first and only thing Harry wanted to do when he heard good news. His mind’s eye, so incredibly unhelpful, keeps replaying Harry’s incredulity like a Vine on loop:  _ Were you not going to tell her? Were you not going to tell her? _

In truth, no, Louis hadn’t planned on it. Not yet, anyway. It never occurs to him to tell his family good news first.

So, because his innards are scrambled eggs, and Harry has this irksome habit of so often being right about him, and it’s eight o’clock in Doncaster and therefore just after dinnertime, he picks up his phone and flops on his bed and calls his mother.

Fizzy picks up the phone and her first question is if Louis is injured or otherwise incapacitated. Her delight is palpable even from a phone connection spanning the Atlantic Ocean, when Louis tells her he just wanted to say hello and tell her some good news.

The Tomlinson family phone call – overwhelming without notice, but a warm kind of boisterous when anticipated – unfolds over the course of half an hour, as the Tomlinsons gather and conference Lottie in from Brooklyn, and Louis tells them about Taylor putting “Home” on her album. Lottie and Fizzy scream the loudest at this, and everyone insists on hearing it-- so Louis chuckles, and takes his phone to the piano, and plays through it. He warns them that it’s a duet missing its other half, but that doesn’t stop them from cheering and hollering even before he finishes the second verse. Lottie and Fizzy start a chorus of “I told you so, I told you so” and Doris demands that Louis get on Skype at once.

This time, he does.

Doris scurries off the moment Skype connects to fetch all the artwork she can carry. His mother and Lottie fuss over how thin he’s gotten, how his hair needs a trim. Fizzy asks how Eleanor is doing, and Daisy wiggles her eyebrows, asks with a mischievous grin how his cute lyrist is doing, and Ernest wants to talk about football, and his sisters’ voices all overlap with each other, a cacophony of colorful sound that somehow soothes his restlessness, or at least briefly suspends it, like a seed in jelly.

He doesn’t have to do much, in the end. He lies on his bed with his phone above his head, looking down at him, and lets his family chatter – lets them love him, vigorously, through the little screen. And when, two hours later, the youngest twins have to be put to bed and everyone reluctantly says good night, he lies on his bed and stares at the ceiling awhile, feels the jelly in him dissolve into his bloodstream, red and purple and tangy and strange. It’s still afternoon, but it feels like the middle of the night. He is constricted corset-tight in his skin and simultaneously unmoored in too much time – always too much time. His whole lifespan played out over a handful of jam-packed years, and now there is always all this time to waste.

And he can’t think any more about it. He can’t. There is too much time, too much on his mind, and so he gives up. Turns on  _ Gossip Girl _ , puts his brain in hibernation mode. Doesn’t think.

\--

But even  _ Gossip Girl _ loses its luster, a couple of episodes in. So he settles in with extra pillows to read  _ The Incredibly True Story of Marcel French _ by the light of his lamp, in a bed that has always been home but tonight feels ghostly and cavernous, the empty spaces radiating their own kind of haunted presence.

It wasn’t like that, before. But two nights of a warm body curled around him, two weeks of the madness Taylor Swift and Harry Styles have visited upon Louis’s otherwise quiet existence, and nothing is like it was before.

He grips tight to the book in his hands, and holds on.


	11. Chapter 11

 

The set of  _ Teen Wolf  _ is not unlike the set of a music video, which is Louis’s closest frame of reference. The claustrophobic clusters of people and camera equipment, all-black clothing and microphones and giant lights, burning white and yellow. The buzz in the room-- everyone sleepy but anticipating the slog ahead. The practice of illusion-making is more science and labor and patience and luck than it is glamor.

Louis reacquaints with his old friend, the make-up chair, as a young woman begins turning him into the werewolf who is supposed to give the main characters a hard time this episode. His main job is to stay still – but he can’t even manage this, all those nerves tingling in his body, turning his phone off and on as he tries to figure out what to do with himself.

“Settle down, love, it’ll be over soon,” the make-up artist says soothingly. Her tone suggests she deals with this far more often than she should.

Louis nods apologetically and tries to heed her instruction.

The make-up artist has established a basic foundation for her werewolf look when Louis’s phone buzzes in his pocket and he scrambles to pick it up. She tries to work around him, as he opens the message on his phone – from Harry.

_ Good luck today, you’ll be wonderful x _

Louis studies the text, blinking at the words as though they will morph before his eyes if he tries long enough. The make-up artist peers down at his phone, grins at him.

“That a boyfriend or someone?” she asks conversationally.

Louis gives a noncommittal grunt and studies the text for a few seconds. Then he opens his camera app, capturing a quick selfie with his half-done wolf face, a blur of the make-up artist’s arm visible in the background. He isn’t smiling, but his expression is nonetheless playful, his eyes catching the light just right. The make-up artist laughs.

“Lucky man,” she remarks, giving him a thumbs-up.

Within seconds, Louis’s phone delivers a picture from Harry – standing in the bakery kitchen, hair up in his bun and hair net, his tongue sticking out to meet the piping bag of buttercream he’d holding in front of his face. Despite himself, Louis snickers, and the make-up artist, still peering over his shoulder, just laughs again.

“He’s cute,” she says with a note of approval.

“That he is,” Louis can’t help but agree, somewhat wistfully.

“How long have you two been together?” she asks.

Louis sighs. Explaining their half-there, half-not relationship would take a novel, not ten seconds in the make-up chair. “I haven’t known him long, but…you’d never be able to tell.”

“That’s the best feeling,” the make-up artist says fondly. “Now, I know your boy is a fun distraction, but I’m going to need you to leave the phone for a bit and let me finish with your face. Director’s getting cranky and I don’t want to be the one to hold you up for shooting.”

“Understood,” Louis says – and he hates himself for it, but he feels a rush of relief, when he has to put the phone away without responding.

He doesn’t know what to say to “his boy,” to any boy at all. His only job today is to not be himself, and he is determined to perform that duty with aplomb, goddamnit.

\--

Filming takes all day and well into the night, a grueling marathon of multiple takes and sitting around and trying it again and making jokes with the other actors to get through it. He doesn’t get a chance to call Eleanor, who’d wanted to hear all about his first day as an actor. And he certainly doesn’t get a chance to go through his text messages again, or respond to any. He returns to his own apartment and promptly crashes.

However, during the morning’s make-up routine with the same make-up artist as yesterday – Elizabeth, Louis discovers – he gets another text from Harry.

_ Do you want to get dinner with me on Saturday after the studio? Could see a movie too, if something good is playing. _

“Ooh, date night?” Elizabeth asks, glancing at the text over Louis’s shoulder again.

Louis’s jaw tightens.

“I don’t know,” he says truthfully.

“You should say yes,” she advises with a smirk.

And he should, shouldn’t he?

But Elizabeth says, “Look up here, love. Answer him when I’m done turning you into a monster.”

And the rest of the day goes by in a blur of on-the-spot script changes, Dylan having a minor tantrum over the lighting in one scene, and redoing Holland’s makeup three times because it washed her out under the relentless fluorescent lighting.

Louis forgets to eat dinner and has to leave his car in the lot to take a cab because shooting runs well after ten o’clock and he’s too knackered to think straight.

\--

Part of Taylor’s guest-recording protocol is to send her own car to pick up the guest in question, to avoid verification muddles or hangers-on, so she sends a car to Louis’s apartment to pick him up at noon on Saturday. Louis is privately grateful, because the  _ Teen Wolf _ shoot wrapped late last night and driving would have been a pain.

The studio is small, discreet, and the section where Taylor is recording is made up of two rooms, a control room connected to the booth by a large glass window and an adjacent conference room, with a square table and a couple of chairs. Taylor is in the control room, sitting comfortably in an easy chair in the corner, a notebook on her lap and a pen cap between her teeth, a mild-looking guy wearing headphones sitting in the chair opposite her. When Louis walks in, Taylor beams.

“Louis! So glad you made it,” she says, rising to her feet to pull him into a hug.

“Yeah, thank you for the car.”

“Harry should be here any minute and then we can get started. Louis, this is Nathan, one of my producers. He’s helped me with every album I’ve ever done.” She beams at him proudly.

“Nice to meet you.” Nathan’s handshake is firm. “Great song.”

“Thank you. Nice to meet you as well.” Louis feels the heat in his ears that always accompanies embarrassment.

Fortunately, he is spared the need to fumble through more pleasantries by the studio door opening again – Harry, walking in like a summer wind, true-blue jeans ripped at the knee and long curls over his shoulders.

Taylor runs to greet him at once, visibly delighted, and Harry is just so much better at this than Louis is – hugging her as tightly as she hugs him, making the room lighter simply by being in it. Louis’s wrung-out stomach twists itself into tortured knots seeing Harry be sweet with her, seeing his face change when Harry’s attention then turns to him.

The sparkle in his eyes dims, even sobers, as his gaze meets Louis’s. A loaded chill whispering of conflict passes between them, as Harry’s mouth smiles and an ice cube seems to fall down Louis’s spine. Their version of a hug is Harry’s hand on his shoulder, leaning into his general vicinity, a disheartening chasm between their bodies.

“Hi, Lou,” Harry murmurs, for Louis’s ears only, before he lets go.

But before Louis can answer, Taylor is pulling Harry over to meet Nathan, bragging about his lyrics as though she were the one to inspire them. Clearly intrigued, Nathan asks about Harry’s writing experience, to which Harry can only blush and respond that he has none professionally. But Nathan, if anything, looks more intrigued.

“It makes sense, actually,” he remarks. “The lyrics are...earnest. You remind me a little of Taylor when she was first starting out.”

“Well, none of this would have been possible for me without Louis.” Harry’s glance in his direction is brief, but it’s like staring directly into the sun, practically incinerates Louis’s insides. “He took a few of my lines and he turned them into a song.”

“Well, obviously you’re a great team,” Taylor says. “He’s an amazing find, Louis.”

_ Yeah, he is, isn’t he? _

Louis’s throat aches. He can’t look at Harry, he can’t. And he can’t say the words like marshmallows lodged between his teeth. He manages a nod toward the ground, lips pursed closed.

But Taylor, bless her, has her own agenda for the day and moves on quickly, now in business mode talking about a sample she’s been working on for the song. Apparently she has been making some changes.

“While I was in L.A., I was having some serious conversations about the direction of the sound for  _ the album _ ,” she is saying to the room at large. “And your version of ‘Home,’ while gorgeous, doesn’t fit the sound I want the album to have. It’s more...atmospheric, whereas I need more straightforward pop, guitars and a glossier finish, you know what I mean? But I do want it as the album closer, so over the last few days, I tweaked the arrangement and added a new bridge. Let me play it for you, and let’s see what you think.”

Louis’s chest floods with dread. He has a feeling that he already knows what he will think-- and he isn’t wrong, when the opening notes of an unfamiliar drum beat begin.

She hasn’t just tweaked the arrangement: she has completely rewritten it.

Gone is Louis’s piano arrangement, painstakingly composed that morning with Harry beside him. Gone are the layers he put together in Ed’s studio, that made Harry whoop and Louis grin and had the two of them falling into each other’s arms. Instead, Taylor’s voice - and an unknown male voice standing in for Louis - soar slickly over guitar and a synth beat, almost unbearably perky. Louis’s nose instinctively wrinkles, and it takes an astounding amount of self-control to pretend that what he’s listening to isn’t making him itch. Beside him, he feels Harry shift uncomfortably as well.

And then there is the bridge, the new one that Taylor wrote:  _ Baby, you are the only one / the only one who knows what I’m all about / When it gets rough outside / You are the anchor that brings me home _ , ending on a piercing high note clearly written with sold-out stadium shows in mind.

When Louis hazards a glance at Taylor, she looks especially pleased with herself for that one.

He barely even listens to the last chorus, mind scrambling in emergency mode on what exactly to say to this. But when the final notes fade out, Taylor is beaming.

“So, what’s the verdict?” she asks. Her eyes are for Louis now, not Harry. Louis swallows thickly, hoping his expression is as bland as possible.

“I, um...I definitely think you added a different sort of character to it.” He sounds lame to his own ears. “And uh...it’s a, um...a good beat?”

Which is when Harry pipes up: “That’s not our song anymore.”

Louis and Taylor both turn to look at him-- standing firmly, jaw set, mouth determined. Louis tries to somehow indicate with his eyes for Harry to stand down, think about this for a moment, but Harry holds his ground.

“I understand you have your concerns about fitting into the rest of the album,” he continues, “but your arrangement changed the heart of the song. It’s not what we wrote.”

Taylor raises an eyebrow in a way that makes Louis very nervous. He hastens to step forward, subtly shielding Harry from her eyeline.

“It’s  _ different _ ,” he says, “but I mean, cohesiveness is definitely important for an album, and um...well, it’s your song now, and I am still more than willing to sing on it--”

“Louis chose that piano arrangement for a reason,” Harry cuts in, moving from behind Louis to face Taylor in his own right. “We sat around in his apartment for hours and he did it a hundred different times on the guitar, but it didn’t feel right. The piano really brings out the core of the lyrics, which is this hope that the speaker feels for the first time in a really long time. The guitar and the beat you put in change the whole story that we wrote.”

Louis bites down hard on his lower lip, looking from Taylor to Harry, Harry to Taylor, Taylor’s indignance and Harry’s righteous frustration. Nathan doesn’t say a word from his producer’s chair, also watching the exchange with a sphinx-like inscrutability. Louis steps in front of Harry again, grips his arm as firmly as his smaller hand can muster.

“Taylor, do you mind if I have a quick word with Harry, please?” he asks, politeness laced with panic.

Taylor nods once, curtly, and Louis drags Harry to the little conference room, slams the door shut.

“What the fuck, Curly, do you really want us to lose this gig? What were you playing at, exactly? Why were you so intent on pissing her off?”

“You heard what she did!” Harry’s tone is fierce. “She completely mangled it!”

“For the love of Jesus, would you please keep your fucking voice down? The walls aren’t that thick here,” Louis hisses.

“It’s nothing I wouldn’t say to her face,” Harry insists. “I mean, I respect her as a musician and a really nice person, but I couldn’t stand what she did to ‘Home’ and I really have no idea how you could!”

“Because this is how these things work,” Louis says, heat coloring his voice now. “She commissioned a song, so I, with your help, gave her one. Now it’s hers to do with as she chooses.”

“It’s a duet,” Harry reminds him. “It’s for two people.”

“No, it’s for her.” Louis runs an impatient hand through his hair. “Listen, this-- this really is how the industry works. This is what I spent my whole career negotiating with, because singers never have any leverage, not really. Your managers and your producers tell you what to do. These producers she met in L.A.? They must have had a good sit-down with her and told her that this is the version that’s going to sell, and so she did what they said. Because she’s worried about sales, and she’s worried about bringing in the right numbers to prove her staying power in a world where pop stars are disposable. Comebacks are hard. So she has to give herself the best possible shot-- which means that she puts in the guitar and the computer tricks and hopes it’s enough.”

“But this is the whole problem with mainstream music,” Harry says. “The tricks are  _ not  _ enough. People will buy whatever makes them feel something. She’ll get the sales and the critical praise she’s looking for if she puts out what we made, music that’s honest.”

“I wish it were that simple,” Louis says. “It isn’t. She’s got her own overlords to keep happy. And I-- I need this. I need her to take my song. Professionally, it is a lifeline too important for me to screw around with.”

Harry’s face softens. “I know. I know how important this is to you, Lou. But is this really what you want to be known for? For an inferior imitation of the real thing you put so much of yourself into? You chose not to work with that Eric Reynolds guy, and you have to remember why.”

“She wouldn’t have even touched anything I made with Eric Reynolds. That was the reason-- the only reason.” Louis paces restlessly around the room.

“I don’t believe that.”

“Well, you should, because it’s true.”

“I  _ know  _ you aren’t this cynical, defeatist person, Louis.” Harry’s eyes flash the green of the sky before a tornado. “Stop pretending that you are. Fight for the song. Fight for yourself. Or at least let me fight for you.”

“No, thank you, you’ve done quite enough.” His tone is sharper than he intended, but he doesn’t take it back. “At this rate, she’ll decide I’m too difficult to work with, she’ll chuck me out, and the biggest opportunity of my career since One Direction will be chucked out with me.”

“That can’t be all you care about!”

“But  _ it is _ .” Anger bubbles up from behind his gut, oozes through Louis’s blood like black champagne on fire. “ _ It is  _ all I care about, because this isn’t a philosophical or ethical debate for me. This is my livelihood on the line. And I will not have you judge me for that.”

Harry gapes at him like he’s been slapped. “Are you kidding me?”

“No. I have never been more serious in my life.”

The hostility emanates off Louis’s person, like a red radioactive glow holding Harry at bay, holding Louis together. But Harry is merely surprised, not defeated. The frown between his eyes deepens and he looks Louis directly in the eye when he speaks.

“You told me that you wanted control over your life and your work when you were in One Direction,” he says. “You told me that you hated being something that you weren’t. You hated the deception. You can’t act like integrity doesn’t matter to you.”

“Listen,” Louis says. His voice is low and raw, eyes an electrifying blue. “Today is the day that I need to record my career-saving duet with Taylor Swift. You have done a beyond phenomenal job up to this point, which is why you’ve been invited here. But if you are going to antagonize Taylor, or me, over the production of the song, I will have to ask you to leave the studio.”

“Like hell I’m leaving.” Harry’s eyes flash with an unexpected danger that twists a knot into Louis’s lower back. “It’s my song too. I haven’t done anything wrong and I don’t have anything to apologize for.”

“You could have lost me the deal in there.”

“She said she wanted to know what we thought!”   


“It was a rhetorical question.” Louis shakes his head irritably. “I know her version is awful. But there’s nothing we can do.”

“But that is completely untrue,” Harry persists, voice full and tremulous. “You wrote the song. Make her understand, as a fellow musician, why changing it is a terrible idea. I mean, you don’t want a repeat of your solo album, where--”

Louis’s heart stops cold. “What did you just say?”

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it again, confused and then embarrassed. “I-- what?”

“Did you listen to my solo album?” Anger licks the inside of Louis’s throat.

Harry looks caught, for a moment, big blinking eyes and eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks. But defiance is quickly etched into the lines around his mouth, in his unchanging slouchy posture.

“I mean, it’s not a crime. I’d mentioned it in passing to Gemma once, and she wanted to hear it, so we put it on.”

“When?”

“If you  _ must  _ know--” Harry’s voice rings with nervous indignation “--it was the night she had you over for dinner. I was helping her cook and she was in charge of the playlist. What, was I supposed to ban her from listening to it?”

“You could have  _ not _ mentioned it now!” The black heat is back in his blood, rushing into his ears. “I mean, I  _ told  _ you not to--”

“But that’s not the point, the point is that--”

“The point is that my boundaries are never  _ the point  _ for you,” he fires back.

“All I did was listen to an album.” Harry’s usually low, slow voice quivers with frustration. “I may not be a professional musician, but I’ve watched you work all these days, and I’ve heard your previous work, and I think your problem is you can be so closed off, and so caught up in what people expect of you, that the music gets muddled. Nothing on  _ Once  _ was bad; it just didn’t sound like  _ you _ . It was big pop hooks when you like a sort of alternative rock-folk-pop mixture. It was shiny love songs when you dwell more on the nuances of being in a relationship. You just didn’t have anything you wanted to  _ say _ .”

“Stop.” The word is terse-- a warning-- but Harry isn’t interested.

“No, damnit, Louis, I won’t.” He says it with enough force that Louis’s gaze instinctively snaps up at him, finds his eyes-- a forest on fire, unafraid of the monsoon building inside Louis. “You have all these rules and these boundaries that you hide behind to protect yourself, but they aren’t helping you, they’re hurting you. What are you so  _ afraid  _ of?”

“This is all profoundly unfair,” Louis snaps. The heat in his cheeks, usually warm with embarrassment, is white-hot with anger. “You barged into my life with all your endless fucking questions--”

“ _ You  _ asked me for  _ my  _ help!”

“--and I’ve shared more with you than I have with most people, I’ve trusted you with my secrets, all of them, every single fucking one, but you are here constantly pushing and pushing and  _ pushing  _ me, shaming me for doing what I have to do to survive--” The urge to physically shove him, to put his hands on those squared shoulders and feel the flesh give, is almost overwhelming, but Louis settles for being on the offensive, walking Harry back, back, back, his silky shirt pressed against the wall with Louis crowding into his space, close enough to feel his breath on his skin, close enough to kiss-- “It’s. Not. Fair.”

He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, their bodies so close but radiating hostility like force-fields. He screws his eyes shut, the inhale sharp and the exhale rough. Whispers, “I never asked for  _ this _ .”

“Neither did I.” Harry’s hands ghost the air around Louis’s arms, like he wants to hold him but doesn’t know. “Neither did I, Lou. I didn’t ask to get in the middle of your mess. I didn’t ask for the song I wrote for  _ you  _ to be ruined by  _ her  _ with your permission. And I didn’t ask you to kiss me back, or invite me over, or just drop off the face of the earth after you were done with me.”

Something catches in Louis’s throat, makes it hard to breathe for a second. “I didn’t--”

“Were you ever going to text me back? Or was that song all you wanted from me, and everything else was just a lark?” His tone is bitter with resentment, as he edges away, faces Louis down so that now Louis is the one with his back against the wall, with Harry all around him.

“I was shooting all day on  _ Teen Wolf _ , it wasn’t personal--”

“Wasn’t it?”

The very scent of him is so heady, so much. And it’s all of a sudden so hateful-- hateful to know how Harry smells, how that smell lingered in his sheets the morning after, how Louis knows what Harry tastes like, knows the way they fell so helplessly into each other. The tenderness that broke Louis down to his elements when they slept together has fermented now into some kind of nightmare of purple darkness-- a sweetness twisted into something ugly and afraid, soured and wrong.

It hurts too much. This hurts too much. And somehow, Harry still isn’t done.

“You are capable of everything you want, Louis. And-- and I care about you, a lot, but you make that  _ hard  _ on me. You won’t stand up for me, or what we made, or for yourself. And now I don’t know where to go from here, because the song is done and you still won't let me in.”

“I can’t let you in if you are already busting down the door,” Louis says, with mingled exhaustion and steel. “And that-- well, that’s what that book is all about.”

It’s Harry’s turn to stop cold.

“Because after my audition, after you were done raiding my biography and informing me that my love wasn’t real, I passed by it at Barnes & Noble.” Louis’s recklessness is like a runaway train, words flying from his lips, the speed and the force of them turning his cheeks blotchy, his voice wild. Harry even steps back, like he’s been burned.

“What do you mean?” he asks, like he’s terrified of the answer.

“I mean that I stayed up reading it, and while it’s obviously fiction, Hamilton’s pen did manage to capture how hard Marcel kept pushing, how he swallowed people whole without asking for their permission.” He doesn't know how his voice isn't shaking, with the racket his heart is making against his ribs.

“After all that talk about privacy, you went and read  _ Marcel French _ ?” Harry is wide-eyed, horrified, but it is Louis’s turn to not be finished.

“I wanted to prove him wrong. I wanted to know what haunted you, when you knew all the things that haunted me.”

“But you think he’s right about me.”

The way Harry’s face changes then is what makes it clear that Louis has crossed a line, a line from which there is no return. The goofiness, the earnestness, that has always lit Harry’s face from the inside out has been extinguished like a candle in an all-consuming winter. His features are hard, his eyes closed-off and disappointed. And Louis wants to tell him, desperate and awkward and sorry, that he doesn’t actually feel that way, that he already wants to take back the implication-- but Harry straightens up, the pause before he speaks again seeming to last for eons and eons.

“Okay, Louis. You win.” He takes one step back, two steps, three. “I’m sorry for pushing you so hard. I won’t anymore.” He pauses, eyes flicking upward at the ceiling and then back to Louis. “Good luck with everything. I’m sure the livestream will be spectacular.”

Louis wants to grab him, shake him even, but Harry wrenches the door open and re-enters the control room where Taylor and Nathan are speaking quietly. They look up at Harry, at Louis just behind him. All of Taylor’s warmth, all her good humor and big hugs, are gone, leaving her face unforgiving-- and Harry is no better.

“I apologize for earlier,” he says with a voice like granite. “Best of luck recording, and thank you for letting me be a part of it.”

He doesn’t look at Louis as he storms out of the same door again, curls bouncing behind him.

“ _ Well _ ,” says Taylor, primly stepping away from Nathan and in front of Louis. “Do you have any other objections, Louis, or can we record the vocals now?”

Her eyes are as blue and as dangerous as his, daring him to challenge her. But he is in shock, unable to say a damn thing. Somehow he is both numb and overcome, like his racing heart finally did gallop out of his chest and leave him hollow. All he can manage is a nod in Taylor’s direction.

So Taylor nods too, wordlessly leads him behind the glass, and gestures at Nathan to start the track.

\--

In hindsight, he will not remember how he listened to Taylor’s distorted version of ‘Home’ for two hours and sang it with her and later got in his car and drove without incident. He will not remember how he stayed so calm, how he managed to contain several galaxies worth of despair quietly inside himself until he reached his destination. In hindsight, all of that will seem like a miracle.

He has no way to know that Eleanor will be at home, but finding the key she hides in the potted plant two floors down is second nature to him, and he lets himself in anyway without knocking. She’s standing in the entrance texting, her boots on like she’s about to leave, and she jumps like she’s been scalded to see him standing there.

She looks like she’s about to ask what’s wrong, but the way he looks at her must give her some clue, because she puts her phone down on a side table and tells him to hang on a minute while she gets the tea kettle going. Louis is tempted to ask for vodka instead, or maybe blunder into her room and collapse on her bed, but he has an inkling that this conversation would probably be better had without alcohol, somewhere he can’t hide under the soft covers of her bedspread. So he follows her to her kitchen, where he perches himself on the counter and watches her set the water on boil.

“Start at the beginning,” Eleanor says, taking out tea bags.

“Depends on which beginning.”

“Today’s beginning, then. You were recording with Taylor?”

“Yeah, we were in her studio.” Louis’s gaze is fixed stubbornly on the kettle.

“How’d it go?”

“She made a mess of it,” Louis sighs. “The song. She changed it, put in this godawful bridge and these guitars and just. It was a wreck.”

Eleanor cringes. “I take it you and Harry didn’t like that.”

“We didn’t. Well, Harry more than me. I at least know the game, and was smart enough to shut my trap and let her get on with it. But...Harry is newer at this than I am.” Louis chuckles darkly. “He was actually pissed.”

“So did you have an argument?”

“Yes, because Harry thinks I lack the spine to defend my integrity.” Louis starts picking at a fingernail. “But...well.”

“Well what?” Sensing that they are getting into the important part of the story, Eleanor leans against the counter, facing down his profile.

“There are some things I haven’t told you.”

“I figured.” She cups his knee in her small, well-manicured hand, squeezes it tight. “Tell me now. From the beginning-beginning.”

Even though this is Eleanor, his Eleanor, that instinct still flails inside him-- the one to shut down, to deflect, to pretend it’s nothing and change the subject. The instinct to seal himself off from everyone and everything, even the people who can help him, in the name of protecting himself. He has depended on that instinct for so very long that it still takes him almost he has to consider a different way.

He turns his face, takes in the sight of Eleanor, waiting on her kettle and waiting on him, firm and present and safe. He remembers that night on his couch with Harry, pushed to such breaking point by Taylor’s new deadline that his secrets felt worthless and he released them in an almost mindless flood to the person in front of him who wanted to listen. The kettle starts to whine, and slowly, softly, he begins to speak.

He doesn’t spare a detail, tells her about the diner, the long late-night conversations, the breakthrough. The morning at Harry’s bakery, the dinner with Gemma, that first kiss in the parking garage and the kisses that followed. The time at Ed’s studio and this time at Taylor’s. And when he’s finally finished, Eleanor is pouring them tea in two cups, taking them to the dining table where they sit on chairs with straight backs, like adults, mulling this over. As he sits across from her, her expression is solemn.

“I don’t mean to suggest that you can’t have your secrets from me, but Jesus, Louis, that’s quite a lot to keep quiet about,” she says.

“It’s just all kinds of fucked up.” Louis takes a scalding sip of tea, savagely enjoying the burn in his throat. “And...and I don’t know, I don’t think it’s fair that he can stalk off like that over one stupid, angry thing I said when he’s spent the last two weeks judging me up and down.”

“It was a hurtful thing to say, Lou.”

“But he hurt me too.”

Eleanor chews thoughtfully on her lower lip, and Louis knows that expression, has known it well since he was nineteen years old. It’s her spin face, the one where she’s trying to figure out how to put the truth in diplomatic, public-friendly terms. He frowns, the raw gaping wound in his chest tingling.

“If you have something to say, say it.”

She sighs. “I just think you’re being a bit silly about all this.” And, when he splutters with indignation-- “Look, I was married. Twice. So I know a few things about terrible communication and how it can turn two good people into giant disasters.” She sips delicately at her tea. “You love him, don’t you?”

Louis blanches. “I-- would hesitate to call it  _ love _ .”

“Well, you more than like him,” Eleanor reasons. “How long has it been since you got laid? At least a year or two, right?”

“Thanks for the reminder,” he mutters.

“You know it’s not because you lack options. You could go to a club tonight and sleep with whoever you wanted. What I’m saying is, you are choosy about sex, and about who you spend your time with, but you chose him. It’s not a marriage-and-babies love at this point, but that doesn’t mean it’s not some kind of love. Whatever muddled sort you cook up in that head of yours.”

“So what’s your point?”

“I think that you love him, and it scares you, so you end up doing stupid shit, like saying things you don’t mean,” Eleanor says simply.

“Well, it doesn’t matter if I do or don’t love him anymore, because I fucked it up. I blew it.” He drains the last of his tea in one long, bitter sip.

“You made a mistake,” she corrects. “And you should talk to him about it, make it right.”

“I...can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because-- because it doesn’t matter, okay?” Louis buries his face in his hands, rubs his tired eyes. “It’s over. It’s done. He’s done with me.”

“He’s just upset, Louis. He’ll get over that.”

Louis shakes his head. “You didn’t see the way he looked at me.”

“So, what, you want to give upon him? Did you come here because you want my permission to give up on him?”

Her tone isn’t sharp, but it’s direct, in that way only Eleanor can be with him-- brown eyes boring through his defenses like a knife through butter, calmly sifting through layers of debris and old bruises to get to the heart of the matter. He looks up at her, a little surprised, more than a little injured.

“I-- I don’t know, all right? I don’t know what I’m doing here, with any of this. He’s upset about what I said, which I can apologize for, but he’s also upset about this song, and there’s nothing I can do about that, because Taylor calls the shots here, not me.”

“And you’re sure there’s no way, none at all, for you to change her mind?”

“I don’t think so. She wants a certain sound for her album, and...and I don’t fit.”

“You could still apologize to Harry about what you said, though. About the text. About the rest of it.” She sighs, her hand reaching across the table for his. “You shouldn’t let him walk out of your life like this, Lou. You care too much about him.”

“Since when has that ever mattered.” He withdraws his hand, eschews her comfort, letting his fringe get in his eyes like that’ll make this conversation any easier. He is tired, so tired-- too tired to protect the ugliness that now seems to ooze out of his very pores, impossible to contain. “I loved Liam, and Zayn, and Niall. We split up anyway. Because of me.”

“Lou--”

“That look on his face, El? That was the same look Liam gave me in Singapore, when it ended.” He feels his hands quivering, a visceral ache in his gut. “I can’t-- I can’t fix it. How I feel doesn’t matter.”

Eleanor is quiet for several seconds-- seconds that stretch out like hours, seem to extinguish all the oxygen in the room. He can’t bear to look at her, can’t bear to sit here in his own skin. It’s as though he wants to scream, but his voice box has already collapsed in on itself, leaving nothing to connect the impulse with catharsis, with action.

A minute, an eternity, later, she breaks the silence.

“Louis, I need you to listen to me right now. Can you do that?”

It takes every scrap of strength he possesses, but he somehow meets her eye, and nods.

“How you feel  _ does _ matter. What you choose to do next matters too. Because One Direction breaking up did not have to be the end of your relationships with Liam, Niall, or Zayn. Ending it with them was a choice you made-- a choice that I honored, even though I disagreed, because it was  _ your  _ choice to make, no one else’s. But you can just as easily make a different choice. You can ask me for Liam’s phone number, and I can find it for you without a lot of difficulty, and you could work things out with him. You could. I even have a feeling he would be happy to hear from you.”

“No, he wouldn’t,” Louis blurts out.

“How do you know?” she asks. “How could you possibly predict that, when you haven’t spoke to him or to the others in nearly ten years? You can’t assume, you can’t put words in people’s mouths, before you ever ask them the question. And the same goes for Harry. You can’t decide he’s done with you when you haven’t even tried to patch things up. It hasn’t even been an hour yet! You have to give him time to forgive you.”

“What if he doesn’t?” The words come out in a broken whisper, his blue eyes shiny.

“Then...he doesn’t. But it’s no reason not to try.”

Eleanor purses her lips, fixes Louis with a piercing, searching stare. And he holds it, even as his hands and his resolve shake. “I think,” she says, “that you give up on people before they can give up on you. And I think that that is why intimacy scares you so much. You don’t want to put anyone in a position to give up on you. And I get it, I know that One Direction traumatized you in a hundred different ways you never completely healed from, but. You have to let that go now. You have to let yourself need people-- people besides just me. People who inspire you, who challenge you to be more and better than you are. People who ask you the difficult questions. It’s the only way you grow.

“Remember when we were talking about a crossroads, about a time to decide what you want for your future? Well, we’re here-- this is the end of the line-- and you have some choices now. Choices that are yours to make, no one else’s. You can keep acting or doing One Direction gigs like you have been, or you can arm-wrestle with some demons, do the things that scare you, and change your life. It’s not that easy, but it is that simple.”

She gets up from the kitchen chair and drags it beside Louis’s, gathering his hands in both of hers and squeezing twice, once firmly and once softly. “But whatever you want, whatever you choose, I’m here for you,” she says. “Always.”

He exhales carefully, his eyes averted down, at their four hands intertwined on his lap. His head is pounding, his heart raw. He runs his thumb across her wrist, and asks, “Can I sleep here? I...don’t want to go home.”

“Of course.” She rises to her feet, helps him up to his. “I’m leaving for a bit anyway, so you’ll have the run of the place. And I’ll bring dinner.”

“Thank you,” he says.

“I love you, Lou.”

She envelops him in a hug; he buries his face into her neck.

“Love you too.”

“See you.”

She lets go first, and lingers by the entrance as Louis wanders in the direction of her bedroom. He hears her lock the door with his face pressed against her bedspread. The apartment is silent now, the air still. He falls asleep within minutes exactly like he is, face down and sprawled like a starfish, his mind grateful for the reprieve.

\--

She's as good as her word, bringing Chinese food from their favorite takeaway and settling in on the couch with him to watch Netflix. Louis discovers that  _ Skyfall _ is available to stream, so that's what they watch, snuggled beneath a blanket, sharing fried rice and garlic chicken. They don't talk much, except to appreciate the cinematography or Daniel Craig’s chiseled perfection, and for that Louis is grateful.

He's shared a bed with Eleanor too many times to count, so it's second nature for him to follow her to her room when the movie is finished. He even has a designated toothbrush in her bathroom for occasions like these. She lets him go in first, then takes a shower, so when she climbs into bed, she smells fruity like her body wash. Even though he's already slept today, he’s still utterly exhausted. Eleanor blinks up at him with eyes like wood still warm from a fire, and he sighs, strokes her cheek with a gentle hand.

“How is this so easy?” he asks, almost wistfully. “Why can I be here in your bed and tell you I love you and it doesn't cost me anything?”

Eleanor shrugs. “Search me. I was married twice, but you're still the one whose takeout orders I know by heart.”

“I just…I wish it would've been you and me. It would have made sense.”

They're curled up close, facing each other but not touching, their bodies like two halves of a crooked heart. She hums with sympathy, smiles sadly in the dark.

“Even if you were straight, I don't think it would've worked out for us romantically,” she says. “I enable you too much, which isn't good for you.”

“You don't enable me!”

“I do, though,” Eleanor says, chuckling wryly. “I clean up your messes after the fact, instead of preventing you from making them in the first place. I do what you want, more than what you need. Which might be forgivable in a manager, but probably not in a close friend.” She considers. “I should have told you to call Liam years ago, but I never did.”

“If you'd told me, I would have said no,” Louis points out. “Don't beat yourself up about it. You're the best manager, and friend, I could've asked for.” A beat. “You didn't have to stick with me after One Direction, but you did. Thank you for that.”

She smiles at him, snuggles in a little closer. “You don't have to thank me. I believed in you. Still do.” She leans in even closer, bops his nose with hers. “Listen to your instincts. Sometimes they mumble.”

“Good night, El,” he says, bopping her back.

“Night, Lou.”

She rolls over to her other side, and Louis automatically curls around her. She's just a little taller than he is, but he still makes a decent big spoon, his arm loose over her waist, their feet colliding playfully.

She's comfortable, so easy to hold and lie beside. But as he nods off to sleep, Eleanor’s steady breathing like a lullaby, he finds himself remembering the two nights that Harry slept in his bed-- that musky boy smell in the sheets, his curls and his long limbs, the way he felt inexplicably  _ right _ even though they’d barely met. How even when they tried not to, their unconscious selves drifted back into each other.

He loves Eleanor like family, like they’d grown up together with sleepovers and dinners at his mum’s house, adventures by the stream and secrets whispered in the higher branches of old oak trees. He trusts her with his life, always has-- but she’s not Harry.

This much is seared into his scrambled brain, as Eleanor shifts and her hair falls into Louis’s face, making him cough. She isn’t Harry. She doesn't ignite that fire in his belly, the one that makes him suddenly want to go places he's never known. She doesn't inspire those dusty corners of his mind he thought would never know light again.

It's like Eleanor had said earlier: it may not be a marriage-and-babies love at this point, but it's  _ some _ thing, something that glows and intrigues and occasionally burns. And it's important, even if it's ruined right now. It's important, and he has to see it through.

Because he loves Eleanor with his whole heart, but he finds that there's still an essential part of his spirit, only now stirring awake, that's craving more.

\--

Sunday is a day of rest, a day of healing. Louis is gentle with himself, going home in the morning and taking to his own bed. He sets up all of his tea-making things on his bedside table, so that he will never be without sustenance as he enjoys the final season and a half of  _ Gossip Girl. _ If he ever wins an award, he's going to have to thank the cast and crew of that show, for all the mindless peace they have given him.

It works, for a while. He's cocooned in his comforter, his thoughts safely at bay. He orders take-out at lunchtime and fetches it from downstairs in his slippers, and that's the only time he has to leave the Louis-sized nest he's made on his mattress.

But even here, even where he's made it safe, he can't avoid himself forever.

It’s like he's suspended in a languid pool overflowing with time, more time than he knows what to do with. It should be a luxury, but instead it's frightening, because his limbs move too slowly and there is nothing for him to do, and there's a panic in that purposelessness, in wasting away when life is supposed to be for living. So many people want just a little bit longer, and here Louis is hoarding all the extra time, floating on his back and wondering what will become of him.

It wasn't always like that. During One Direction, there were never enough hours to complete everything on the agenda. That drove Liam wild in particular, because Liam always wanted to accomplish too much, wanted to see more, give more, be more. And his energy was infectious, making Louis want the world too, made the days feel short and the nights feel shorter. There wasn't enough time, but that made everything its own kind of sweet and shiny.

Liam invited Louis over to his parents’ house over one short two-day break some time in their third year, and Louis had to chase him around with his mother’s broom for waking up at five in the morning for a run and dropping his deodorant with a clatter and therefore waking Louis up at five in the morning. Louis finally caught Liam in someone’s yard down the street, Liam laughing too hard to escape, and beat his backside with the broom, demanding to know what Liam’s fucking problem was.

And Liam just took it, rolled around in the grass and gasped between giggles, “I hate being still. Such a waste, eight hours, only sleeping.”

And so Louis threw the broom aside and they spent the rest of that day kicking around a soccer ball, sharing beers, and writing songs about good times and being free.

Liam always had a way of setting Louis free.

All three of the guys did, though, if he's honest with himself. Louis was probably the closest to Liam, but he also remembers how Zayn could transform the night into his own studio, the earth into his canvas. The two of them snuck out all the time, Louis standing guard but often participating as Zayn spray-painted lonely, out-of-the-way scraps of urban decay with the contents of his imagination, gold and green and blue and glitter. This was one thing they did which Zayn never let anyone else in on. Once, while pleasantly buzzed on good weed in Germany, Louis asked why and Zayn merely shrugged, said he felt a kinship with a fellow chaotic artist.

And then the days were Niall’s territory-- Niall, sunshine incarnate, who loved music festivals and food festivals and sports matches of all varieties, anywhere that people gathered and chatted and laughed and got drunk. Nothing ever fazed him; nothing ever hurt him so badly that he couldn’t recover. And he made Louis want to be that way too-- young and invincible and up for anything. Niall made magic and sparkling possibility out of ordinary things.

None of them were perfect, of course. But their faults and triumphs, their regrets and desires, turn the four of them in Louis’s mind into transcendently decent human beings doing their best with what they had. He remembers nothing but love. And it seems unfair, more so today than any other, that their love was truncated in anger and silence. At least, Louis’s own silence.

He finds himself meditating on what Eleanor said about choices, as he finally gets out of bed and puts his tea things away.  _ It’s not that easy, but it is that simple _ . The inertia of the last ten years-- of everything Louis has avoided and feared and blamed himself for-- makes such a notion unfathomable. How could it be, after all that happened, that he still has the power to just...change everything? How could he still choose to want something different for his life, and act on it, and follow through?

It must be impossible; it must be hopeless. Somehow, the alternative scares him more than that proposition.

What would that feel like, to change? To leap headfirst into the unknown, attempt to shed the restless insecurity of his post-One Direction years in one fell swoop?

He leans against the counter of his kitchen, surveys his apartment, his home. The piano in the corner, the furniture still in the wrong places from when Harry dragged it around to write. It’s all so quiet here-- insulated. Every picture on his walls is from ten years ago, with his boys. This is a space untouched by anyone else, and today that’s a little sad. Like an orchid on a window sill, wilting and shriveling under the relentless sun it thought it needed.

Louis considers going back to bed, back to where there is a blanket and solitude and  _ Gossip Girl _ . But in the end, he goes to the shower, washes his hair, puts on jeans he knows he looks good in, and changes his sheets, takes the comforter and old sheets to the laundry. And, before he loses his nerve, he texts Eleanor asking for Niall’s phone number, throws the phone back on his bed with a shudder, and leaves the apartment for a walk, maybe a donut.

The day is even warmer and brighter than it looked from his bedroom window. He breathes in the springtime and makes his way down the block-- no particular destination in mind, just a desire to move and breathe and see what the afternoon has to offer.

\--

When Louis gets home, he tries to loiter, maybe eat some fruit, before checking his phone, but of course he fails miserably. He descends upon his phone the moment he takes off his shoes.

And sure enough, there is a message from Eleanor-- sent eight minutes ago, one phone number, presented without comment. He drops the phone back on his bed, gripped with terror all over again.

A string of ten numbers. That’s all it is, and that’s all it would take, for Louis to hear Niall’s voice again. For the past to meet the present, attempt to bridge the vast gulf in between. It’s surreal, almost too much to process at once, because Louis has built this conflict up so vast and intimidating in his head for such a long time that this now feels too...mundane, for such a significant moment.

Louis had asked for Niall’s number instead of Liam or Zayn’s because he figured Niall would be the easiest to start with. Niall, who got along with everybody he met, who had a hard time hating even the people who deserved it. Niall probably wouldn’t give him a hard time. But when Louis remembers how many times Niall called when everything ended, how he flooded their voicemail with messages, how his family had to disconnect the phone for a few days because Niall called so often, and the pit of shame he has learned to live with over the last eight years feels like a black hole, heavy and all-consuming.

Niall is his best chance, but Louis has inexcusably wounded one of the best, sweetest people he knew. Even if Niall forgives him, Louis doesn’t think he would deserve it.

He tries to find something to do, some way to distract himself from the terrifying prospect of calling Niall Horan, but he realizes, to his sadness and frustration, that there is nothing. Nothing else he can do. He can’t watch any more Netflix, drink any more tea, take more walks or showers. He can’t call Eleanor; instinctively, he knows this is something he has to do himself. And maybe a couple of days ago he might have considered asking Harry, but...well. That’s not an option anymore either.

So, in the end, there isn’t a compelling reason that inspires Louis to call Niall. There’s just a lack of reasons not to. No distractions, no alternatives. No fanfare, either, as Louis sits down on his couch and lets his thumb hover over the number Eleanor sent. It might be one of the most important moments for Louis in recent memory, but the apartment is as silent as it ever is, when Louis finally presses down and the phone begins to ring. His heart is numb, but his stomach is a tight knot of anxiety.

It rings three times.

Then, one word, the Irish accent strong even in two syllables--

“Hello?”


	12. Chapter 12

 

“Hello?”

Louis physically cringes, his head between his knees as all the blood in his body seems to rush there. It’s like that single word knocked all the wind out of him. He sits up and opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. The sunlight through the windows burns through his jeans.

“Hello?” Niall says again.

He sounds like he’s going to hang up, so Louis clears his throat with enormous difficulty. “Nialler-- Niall. Hi.”

Niall inhales so sharply that Louis hears it across the phone line.

“Tommo. That you?” His tone is inscrutable.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s me.”

Niall contemplates that for a solid ten seconds. Louis counts them, his heart in his throat.

“How’re you doing, Lou?” He is friendliness tinged with guardedness. “It’s been awhile.”

“I know. I...am so sorry about that.”

“What’s going on with you?”

Sitting down is suddenly unbearable. Louis stands up, starts pacing around the living room, the phone sandwiched between his ear and shoulder. “I, uh...well, I’ve been writing lately. After a, um. A long time.”

“That’s great,” Niall says. And he seems to mean it-- but the sentence hangs, like he’s waiting for the rest. Like he still knows Louis well enough to guess when he’s stalling.

“I also...I wanted to, I don’t know, bury the hatchet, kind of.” He switches the phone to his other ear, exhales shakily. “It’s probably too late for that, but-- but I got scared, and the longer I waited, the scarier it was. So, I-I’m trying.”

And this is it, the silence that Louis had dreaded the most. All his cards are out on the table, so to speak-- every crumpled ace, every broken-hearted queen-- and all he can do is wait. He tries to keep his breaths deep and even, tries to listen for Niall across the static.

Niall doesn’t make him wait long. “Why were you afraid, Louis?” His voice trembles a little, raw and soft. “We loved you. We missed you. You just disappeared, and we were worried about you.”

Louis’s throat aches. “I...needed time away. I thought you hated me for ruining everything.”

“There was anger, I won’t deny that, but it was never--  _ Lou _ .” The old nickname is soaked in hurt, exasperation, sadness. “Just because Liam was angry, didn’t mean he’d stay that way.”

“The last night, I just--”

“Liam took it harder than anyone,” Niall interjects. “He kept a lid on it in public, because he had to, but you know how he was. It messed him up that he let you go when you needed us.”

“It wasn’t on him, it was on me--”

“It was on all of us.” On this, he is firm. “We were a team, and we let each other down.”

“I didn’t take any of your calls.” Louis is back on the couch, knees like jelly, insides in knots. “You tried, but I didn’t answer. That was on me.”

Niall goes quiet again.

“Well, you finally called me back today.”

“A few years late.”

“I don’t care.” Niall pauses. “Where are you, anyway? I need to hug the shit out of you. Buy you a pizza or something.”

Louis chuckles, despite himself. “I’m in New York City.”

“Fuck. I’m in L.A.” Louis hears something shuffling in the distance. “Wait just a tick then, I’ll be there in a few hours.”

He nearly drops the phone. “What?”

“These are the kinds of occasions private jets were made for, mate.” Niall’s tone is soft, his grin audible. “Text me your address. I’ll be there at...what, would it be, nine your time? Ten? I’ve always been shit at time zone math.”

“Niall--”

“Anyway, I’ll let you know when I land. Be ready, okay?”

“Nialler, this is batshit,” Louis tries to explain. “You can’t just--”

But Niall just says, “Hold that thought, will you?” and hangs up the phone before Louis can attempt to dissuade him any further.

\--

Niall is coming.  _ Niall is coming _ . Of all the things Louis expected from his day when he woke up this morning-- of all the things Louis dreamed or hoped for when he called-- he never expected this.

He texts Niall his address, as instructed, and spends the rest of the afternoon trying to clean up his apartment, trying to keep his hands busy. He runs to the corner store a couple of blocks down for a healthy stockpile of alcohol, but also picks up chips and guacamole and the other silly, snacky types of things Niall used to inhale on tour. He keeps a strict eye on his phone, wondering how on earth this is happening right now--  _ Niall _ , coming  _ here _ .

He considers calling Eleanor, because that’s what he does the minute anything happens in his life, but it doesn’t take him long to decide against it. Like making the call, this is something Louis has to do without Eleanor. Something Louis has to face up to himself. Making a change, as it were.

Niall texts Louis that he’s landed in the city at 8:58pm. The buzzer to his apartment rings at 9:12pm.

Louis doesn’t hesitate. He’s waiting at the threshold, the front door all the way open, when Niall comes clamboring up the stairs.

Niall slows as he approaches the door, a grin widening as he takes Louis in, as Louis takes him in.  To Louis’s surprise and joy, Niall looks almost exactly as Louis remembered him. He's a little older, a little lined around the eyes and mouth, and he’s let his hair go fully brown instead of skunky brown-blonde, but his eyes are still a vivid, clever cerulean, and he’s got that manic, impish energy about him that used to make Louis go on any adventure Niall wanted. When Niall stops in front of Louis at the door, he practically pounces on Louis in an airtight hug, knocking the wind out of him all over again but in a good way, the best way.

Louis can barely believe he’s real, standing on this ground and in this space, holding Louis like there aren’t almost ten years of separation between them. Niall even smells the same, like salt-and-vinegar chips and peanuts. Louis buries his face in Niall’s neck, breathes deeply. It takes Niall a long time before he lets Louis go, plants two wet kisses on Louis’s cheeks like nothing’s changed at all.

“I planned on picking up a pizza on my way, but I wanted to see you first, Tommo,” he says. “Now please tell me you have something to tide me over while we order delivery.”

Louis blinks for a moment, then bursts out laughing-- like the world has switched from black-and-white to technicolor. “Of course I do, hungry hippo,” he says, clapping Niall’s shoulder. “Bought enough Sun Chips and guac to feed a small army, just for you.”

Niall beams. “Bless you.”

Niall has never been in this apartment before, but moves around it like it’s home, like he’s here all the time, raiding Louis’s fridge and cabinets for whatever he wants without formality. Louis perches himself on the kitchen counter, unable to stop grinning, while Niall helps himself to a beer and places a pizza order on his phone. When he’s finished, he collapses contentedly on Louis’s couch with the chips and guacamole, looking around at all the pictures on the wall.

“I remember that,” he says, pointing to a photograph from an awards show, where the four of them are laughing at something off-camera. “Didn’t one of the waiters nearly spill a bunch of champagne on Cameron Diaz?”

“Yes, that was it,” Louis says with a chuckle, sitting down beside Niall and eating a chip. “And she went off on him, because her shoes were worth something like thirteen thousand dollars.”

“Good times, good times,” Niall laughs. “And that poster! God. Do you remember how much hairspray Teasdale put on Z and me during the shoot? Liam couldn’t stop sneezing. Amazing they even got a smile out of him.”

Louis hadn’t actually remembered that, as he glances up at the poster from their first run, the one they all signed. All he remembered was doing his own hair, the scruffy hedgehog look that became his signature because he never knew how to follow instructions. He’s about to say something disparaging about it, but Niall’s expression is so unguardedly tender that the words die on his tongue.

“We were so young,” Niall says, gesturing up at the picture. “Does it ever get to you, how young we actually were?”

“Sometimes I still wonder how I ever talked my mum into letting me do it,” Louis admits.

“There wasn’t much to it. Either we did whatever Simon wanted, or we packed up and went home and told everyone we cared about that we were a bust.” Niall sighs, looks back at Louis with serious eyes. “It was fucked up. I know it happens all the time, because now I’m on the production and business side of things, but it never stops being fucked up.”

“What are you up to these days, anyway?” Louis asks with real curiosity.

“What, you don’t keep tabs on my Google results?"

“Oh, shut up,” Louis says, as Niall cackles. “You know that I would never.”

“Well, you should’ve. I kept up on yours.”

Louis’s eyes widen. Niall had known Louis’s aversion to Google and Wikipedia searches-- Niall had intimately understood what Louis kept trying to explain to Harry, about how refraining from those searches showed a minimal shred of respect for someone whose life wasn’t really in their control-- so Louis is both surprised and a bit insulted. Despite their history, this is all still new, Niall sprawled on Louis’s couch with a mouth full of guacamole, so Louis settles for a deep frown, a stiff bite out of a Sun Chip.

Niall, however, shrugs without apology. “There was no other way to keep track of you, Lou. When we couldn’t get ahold of you, we tried calling Eleanor, but she said to leave you alone until things cooled off a bit. That was about six months after the band broke up, and we never tried again with her.”

“You lot called El?” Louis is genuinely gobsmacked.

Niall nods. “Liam had even wanted to hire her as head of his PR when he got going on the solo stuff, but she turned him down. Said it wasn’t fair to you.”

Louis doesn’t know how to begin processing this. He slowly puts his chip down, leans back on the couch. He’d always known that Eleanor had been loyal to him, more so than he deserved, but this--

“What, she never told you?” Niall asks.

“No,” Louis says faintly. “She didn’t.”

“El was and is the best of the best,” Niall says, tone warm. “She kept your secrets, wouldn’t let anything on. I felt like a right stalker, constantly combing Google and them fansites trying to figure out if you were doing all right.”

“Are you still in touch with her?” It suddenly occurs to Louis that he never asked Eleanor how she got Niall’s number so quickly.

“Christmas cards and birthday calls, mostly. Far as I know, it’s the same with Zayn and Liam. Last time I saw her in person was last year, at some party here in the city. We chatted awhile, caught up, that kind of thing.”

“I would’ve hated it if she stopped talking to you because of me,” Louis says.

“Nah, it was nothing like that.” Niall’s eyes are kind. “We’re the Christmas card sort. She’s always been closer to you than any of us.”

“It probably would have been better for her if she weren’t,” Louis mumbles.

“Not at all.” Niall claps him on the back, loads a chip with guacamole and stuffs it in Louis’s mouth. Louis nearly chokes, but when he swallows down the chip, Niall hugs him again, gentler this time.

“I really am glad you called, mate,” he says.

“I'm glad you picked up. I wasn't sure you would.”

“I would, every time,” Niall says. “Just like Zayn, and just like Liam.”

The heat rises in Louis’s cheeks, under the spotlight of Niall’s patient gaze. He pats Niall’s knee, lets Niall ruffle his hair. There is a burn in Louis’s chest like something coming together again, healing after a messy break. It's not altogether unpleasant, with Niall smiling all crinkly-eyed, eating chips and waiting while Louis gathers himself.

He’s about to speak, but the buzzer for the door goes off just then, indicating that the pizza is here. Louis jumps up to fetch it and brings it back to the sofa-- a large Meat Lover’s pizza, Louis’s favorite. Niall delightedly runs to the kitchen, where he finds Louis’s plates, and snags three pieces for himself. Louis starts with one, though, his appetite for food far overshadowed by his appetite for news about Niall’s state of affairs.

“So,” Louis says, “tell me everything about the last eight years.”

Niall takes an enormous bite of his first slice, chews blissfully for several seconds, and obliges.

And he is as effortless as Louis remembered, launching immediately into the strange, restless post-One Direction days and his attempts to break the funk that had settled over him. “It was our lives for four years, I mean, I just had no idea what to do with myself,” Niall says, matter-of-fact about the angst of it so long after the fact. He had a place in L.A. where he moped for a while, then he decided on a whim to enroll at the University of California in San Diego to do his bachelor’s degree. “Figured I had the time and the money, so why not?”

Seeing the alarm in Louis’s face, Niall giggles and says, “It wasn't as big a deal as it sounds, you know. I started the fall semester after the band ended, when some of the hullabaloo had died down, and I kept a bodyguard with me on campus, but I didn't really need one. It's California; nobody gives a shit. Media stayed off campus, and the school newspaper types were too polite to ask for an interview more than once. People always get curious or want to mooch, and you deal with that, but for the most part we were all just college kids who want to have a good time, and I could afford to be generous.”

“What did you major in, then?”

“Political science and music, composition emphasis.”

Louis’s face breaks into a thoroughly endeared grin. “Seriously?”

Niall answers with a smile like sunshine. “Seriously!”

Simon had decided to exclusively focus on the extroverted side of Niall’s personality when promoting him, but Louis, Liam and Zayn all knew that Niall had a passionate interest in politics. His primary focus was on the Irish political scene, but he enjoyed following the circus of American national elections as well, expressing great dismay that he couldn't vote in the presidential race even though he was probably more informed than most American voters. During lulls in their day, car rides or the make-up chair, Niall could usually be found with his nose in a book on globalization, social movements, or influential political theorists. He and Zayn talked politics for whole nights sometimes, while Louis and Liam ran off to play football under the stars.

“Well, I'm glad you finally found people willing to discuss John Stuart Mill with you,” Louis says, to which Niall guffaws into his guacamole.

“It was fun,” he says eagerly. “I liked college. And I liked the formal music training, you know, both with the vocals and the behind-the-scenes stuff. I usually let you and Liam handle that, and I regretted it when we were done, because Liam was obviously going to take over the world, and Zayn was focusing on his painting, and you were putting out your own solo album at the time, and I didn't know where I fit in.”

“My solo album was shit,” Louis says wryly, tearing off a chunk of his pizza crust. “I didn’t know where I fit in either.”

“I remember that not going so well for you,” Niall says. But he sounds thoughtful rather than judgmental. “I think it was too soon.”

“Definitely,” Louis agrees.

“I fell in love with producing while I was in school,” Niall says. “I didn’t like writing as much as you and Liam did, but I liked how the songs got put together. Turns out I have an ear for it.”

“I believe that.” Louis recalls aloud how Niall used to love spending evenings on tour with the band, undoing their music at the seams and remixing it, experimenting with different sounds and textures. Niall grins, tells Louis about how he and Josh, their drummer, stayed close after One Direction and Josh helped Niall get one of his first big producing gigs.

“I helped with a couple of songs for Kelly Clarkson that went on and did well,” Niall explains. “And the thing about this industry is, once one decent person knows you exist, they talk about you to the five other decent people in your field, and before you know it, you’re getting calls to work with more artists, and it’s-- well, it’s fucking brilliant, really, because word-of-mouth is how anything gets done out there.”

“Are you working on anything right now?” Louis asks. “I mean, I’d hate to tear you away from anything important in L.A.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” Niall says comfortably, gobbling up his second slice of pizza. “I’ve got some stuff in the works, but my schedule’s pretty flexible. And I took the company jet in, but I can always fly commercial if they give me a hard time about coming back.”

“You and the private jet, Nialler.” Louis shakes his head, chuckling. “You abused ours to the point where we got that awful bollocking about discretionary expenses.”

Indeed, Niall had enjoyed nipping back to Ireland for a night, for even a few hours, between engagements whenever he got tired of it all. It was his way of coping. And especially towards the end of the band’s run, when Niall needed to escape a lot, he’d turned Simon blue in the face with how much money was spent flying Niall around. Niall wasn’t especially bothered-- besides some guilt over the waste of nonrenewable resources-- because by that time, he enjoyed giving their team the run-around.

He laughs blithely now, as he did then, dismissing Louis’s point with a wave of his hand. “I don’t abuse it quite so much anymore. This was rather a special occasion.”

“Yeah?” Louis watches Niall finish off the crust of his second slice, blue eyes cloudy. “Does that mean you forgive me, then?” His voice goes soft at the end, like somehow he’s still afraid to ask.

But Niall’s eyes-- as bright and blue as Louis’s-- smolder affectionately, no trace of a grudge in the lines around his mouth. “Of course, Lou. You’re always forgiven.”

Louis has never been much of a crier, but the easy way Niall says it, like it’s a non-issue despite it weighing so heavily on Louis’s mind all these years, makes his eyes fill quickly, makes him soft all over. His fingers are greasy with pizza, but he still brushes his face with the back of his hand, tries to hold back the abrupt onslaught of emotion. And Niall, his hands even greasier, wipes them on his jeans and puts his arm around Louis’s shoulders again, holds him there.

“The most important thing,” Niall says, “is that you’re okay, and you’ve got your life back, and I get to be here now.”

“It took awhile,” Louis admits, resting his head against Niall’s shoulder. “To get my life back together.”

“But you got the drinking under control. You’re out of the closet. You’re in control of what you sing and when you sing it. And however long that took, you did get there, and I’m so glad.” He pauses. “How's that going, anyway? Being out of the closet? I'm not even friends with you on fucking Facebook, and God forbid you ever put anything of substance on your Twitter.”

Louis chuckles at that, a stutter of a laugh as Niall strokes his hair. “If it helps, I don't post anything on my Facebook. I prefer to creep quietly on other people.”

“But are you seeing anyone?” he persists.

It's easier to answer that question while nestled against Niall’s warmth, no eye contact necessary. “I'm not seeing anyone, no. Are you?”

“Not in particular,” Niall says. “I want to settle down, preferably soon, but I haven't gotten lucky yet.”

“I thought it would be easier, once I was out,” Louis confesses into Niall’s sweater. “But it wasn’t, you know? It was all I wanted while I was in the band, but I didn’t know what to do when I finally got it. I slept around some, but it just...it wasn’t enough, and then I felt even worse, because I’d won, right, I got to come out, but it ended up not mattering anyway.”

“But what you wanted wasn’t lots of random sex and/or a magic Prince Charming,” Niall points out. “You wanted to be yourself. You wanted the  _ option _ of sex and/or Prince Charming. And that freedom matters a lot, no matter what you ultimately do with it.”

Louis had forgotten how good Niall was at this, at eating pizza and drinking beer and gently untangling the knots Louis made for himself without judgment. Louis had forgotten how much Niall could feel like home, his hands smelling of cheese and his body an overheated pillow to cuddle. It’s been almost ten years, but Niall dropped everything to fly to where Louis was, and now they are snuggled on Louis’s couch as though nothing is different, nothing is broken. No pain, no hard feelings-- like some kind of surreal dream that Louis never wants to wake up from.

“Liam and Zayn and I talked a lot about it, when we saw the press reports that you were officially out,” Niall continues. “They understood what you were going through a lot better after it was over. It was dehumanizing to make you feel like you were a liability because of who you loved. And Liam especially was so focused on trying not to let you become an alcoholic that he forgot why you drank in the first place, kept trying to treat a symptom instead of helping you with the problem. We should’ve kept on reminding you that you were fine as you were, and we were in this together no matter what, and we never, ever should have let misunderstandings break up our friendships.”

The pressure is back behind Louis’s eyes, the red and purple of old blood and bruises in his gut. “I made it impossible for you lot to stay, it wasn’t on you--”

“It was,” Niall says, more fiercely than Louis expected. He hugs Louis against him so tightly, like he’s trying to squeeze all the old ache out of his bones. “Like I said before, it was on  _ all _ of us. You hung in there for a long time, even when I know it sometimes nearly killed you. We should have all hung on longer.”

“But it was  _ my fault _ \--” Louis chokes on the word, and Niall shakes his head vigorously.

“It was all our faults,” he repeats. “And of all the things I’m happy about tonight, what I’m happiest about is that I finally got to tell you that.”

Still clutching Louis, Niall leans forward and retrieves both of their forgotten plates of pizza from the coffee table. He picks up Louis’s slice first, guides it into his mouth and holds it still while Louis takes a bite. Then he resumes work on his own slice, chewing into the silence with the pizza in one hand, the other hand wrapped protectively around Louis’s waist. He only loosens his grip for a moment when Louis extends a little T-rex arm trying to grab his beer. When Louis has the bottle to his lips, he is tucked right back into Niall’s side-- a place Niall does not seem to have any intention of releasing him from. Which, frankly, suits Louis just fine.

They eat their way through the rest of the pizza like this, as though in wordless ceremony. The stillness, the claustrophobic quiet, of Louis’s apartment no longer gets to him, with Niall in his space, sharing the stillness with him. It is only when the pizza is finished, and the beer is gone, and Niall is comfortably digesting with his feet on the table, that he decides to speak.

“Lou, I am going to float something by you-- and it’s not really going to be a request-- so I need you to not freak out on me for a minute,” he says.

Louis peers upward, getting an eyeful of Niall’s nostrils, his pink mouth, the fan of his eyelashes. “What is that supposed to mean? That doesn’t sound promising.”

But Niall remains undaunted. “I want to call my pilot and tell him we’re going to London.”

“ _ We _ ?” Louis doesn’t throw off Niall’s arm, but he does sit up straighter so he can get a better look at the mad Irishman beside him.

“Yeah, you and me,” says Niall. “Liam’s doing the last couple of shows of his tour in London tomorrow night, and I want us to go.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Why?” Defiance puckers Niall’s already thin lips. “We have the plane. We have the time. I talked Zayn on the way here and he’s in London too. Do you have somewhere else you need to be tomorrow?”

Louis wants to say yes, wants to even make something up, but he falters and Niall knows it. “See, your schedule is clear. And you need to see Liam and Zayn.”

“I don’t even know if they want to see me,” Louis insists. “Shouldn’t we call first? Liam is horrible with surprises.”

“They’ll want to see you,” Niall assures him.

“But I-- I can’t just up and leave--”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s too much too fast!” Louis explodes. “Calling  _ you  _ was hard enough, and now you’re here, and that’s still insane to me, and now you want me to fly to London--”

“You can visit Donny while we’re there,” Niall cajoles. “I’m sure your mum would be thrilled with that surprise! And the little twins, God, they must be so big now. Ten, right?”

“Yeah,” Louis mumbles, and Niall whistles with awe.

“Dora and Ernie, ten years old. Where the fuck does the time go?” He pats Louis’s shoulder, reminding him a bit of Eleanor-- a hard smack, then an affectionate rub, and the smack again. “But I’m sure all the Tomlinson-Deakin crew want to see their Loubear.”

Louis groans. “You couldn’t take these long years to go ahead and forget that nickname?”

“Nope!” Niall smacks his lips gleefully on the last syllable. “Come on. Your family is there, and Liam and Zayn, and everyone wants to see you.”

“You’re a nightmare and a whirlwind, Horan,” Louis accuses, pointing a finger at Niall’s face.

But Niall is Niall-- throws his head back and laughs, digs his fingers into Louis’s waist and starts tickling him.

“I’ll give you mercy when you promise me you’ll go pack your bag now while I make the call,” Niall hollers over Louis’s shrieks.

And really, shame on Louis for being surprised. This is a man who flew across the continental United States on a moment’s notice for the sake of hugging Louis and buying him a pizza. A trip across the Atlantic doesn’t faze him, and he is not above childish playground tactics. Louis manages to promise between screams out of pure self-preservation, and Niall finally lets him go, giggling but also helpfully rubbing Louis’s back as he coughs into normal sinus rhythm again.

“You are a  _ menace _ ,” he gasps.

“But I’m  _ your  _ menace.” Niall’s eyelashes flutter.

Louis is immediately reminded of those Sour Patch Kids commercials:  _ first they’re sour, then they’re sweet,  _ the little gummy creatures terrorizing the subject of the advertisement before charming their way back into the subject’s favor. Niall is wearing just that kind of sugary smile, convinced he’s wearing Louis down.

But Louis stands by his earlier point. “It really is too much too soon. I can’t go now.”

“If not now, then when?” Niall’s voice is gentler, but his intensity lingers, even in the sparkle of his blue eyes. “Do you need more time to psych yourself up, or to talk yourself out of it? What’s holding you back here, Lou?”

“It just-- can't be that easy.” He sighs, hands helpless in his lap. “It can't be that-- that you call up your pilot in five minutes and we’re there tomorrow and suddenly everything is okay again. It doesn't make any sense.”

Niall wrinkles his nose. “What, hasn't it been hard enough already?”

Louis is about to protest, but Niall shakes his head. “I can tell you're trying to overcomplicate this, but don't, okay? It's been awful not talking to you for almost a decade, so if you're ready for that to end, I don't want to waste any more time. Instead, I want to go see the rest of our band, and eat, and get pissed, and be a family again. That sound good to you?”

It does. Of course it does. It actually sounds almost too good to be true or possible or imminent. Louis peers sideways at Niall, eyes wide with fear.

“What if they don't want to see me, Nialler?” he asks in a whisper, like they can hear.

But Niall shakes his head again, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Mate, they're gonna fight me for seeing you first.”

He apparently loses interest in getting Louis’s permission then, takes his phone out of his pocket and starts talking almost immediately-- their names, location, desired destination. Louis strains to listen in on the conversation, overhears that Niall’s pilot was in the middle of eating dinner and could only be persuaded to fly again if generously compensated. Niall says of course, of course, and promises to be at the airport within the hour.

When he hangs up, he stares expectantly at Louis. “What are you still doing here eavesdropping? You have to pack your bag, we have to leave!”

And so he shoos Louis away to his bedroom, while simultaneously helping himself to the leftover chips and guacamole, the sound of his crunching audible even over the mess Louis is making in his bedroom throwing things into a backpack.

“I'm glad you still have an above average taste in chips,” Niall remarks, grabbing the rest of Louis’s chip bags as they rush out the front door.

\--

They land in London around dawn. The city is grayer than Louis remembers it, feeling like a New York sunrise in black-and-white. Niall checks his phone and mumbles something about rain later in the morning. But everything-- the lurid airport signage, the air heavy with moisture, the sleepiness of the people milling around caught between time zones-- reminds Louis of other such dawns when he landed here at Heathrow, bones drumming with excitement to go home. He remembers the layout of the airport like it was something out of a recurring dream. Niall yawns into his elbow, still waking up, but Louis has never felt more alert. Has never felt more himself, in the strangest way.

Niall has a car waiting to pick them up at Arrivals, and it is both unsettling and a deep relief that no screaming throngs serenade them on their way out. The airport is quiet and impassive, letting them go about their business anonymously. It brings a twitch of a smile to Louis’s lips, remembering how welcome this peace would have been years ago. Travel is exhausting and fans are even more so. Louis climbs into the back of the car beside Niall, and Niall explains that they are going to his London flat for a rest before they visit Liam in the afternoon. Louis’s insides still do a somersault at Liam’s name, but he nods as acquiescently as possible.

Niall has never been extravagant, and Louis is reminded powerfully of this as they enter his flat, which isn’t much bigger or more opulent than Louis’s own. It’s furnished as a place that someone actually lives-- the hardwood floors easy on Louis’s feet from use, paintings and personal pictures on the walls, magazines and paperbacks and knickknacks strewn around like it’s been a few days since the place has been tidied. Louis adores it immediately.

“I can sleep here,” Louis says, gesturing to the comfortable-looking beige couch in the living room. But Niall just snorts and yanks Louis up anyway, drags him to the bedroom.

“You hussy, this is still technically the first date!” Louis pretends to be outraged, but he’s grinning too widely, following too willingly.

Niall retaliates by cuddling him all that much harder when they get into bed. And it’s not altogether a bad feeling, Niall spooning Louis with equal parts earnestness and innocence, like it’s still 2002 and they are puppies trying to keep warm in a strange hotel in a foreign city. Niall is out almost immediately, snuffling snores into Louis’s neck, and it is this, more than anything else, that soothes Louis to sleep.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just so you know: I know absolutely nothing about the O2 in London, have never set foot in it, do not know how its security works or where they store musical equipment, and I basically made shit up for my own ends here. Accuracy issues are all my own dumb, lazy fault, and you’ll just have to forgive me. (That goes for the rest of this story too. If I made silly mistakes, I can only apologize.)

 

Liam’s _What a Feeling_ world tour-- which has been going on for the past eight months at an almost relentless pace-- is coming to a close with two sold-out shows at the O2 in London. Tonight is the first of those shows, second-to-last overall, and Niall has arranged to meet Liam backstage at one o’clock. When they wake up, Niall and Louis grab a quick pub lunch at noon, then head out to the O2, where Liam’s manager will let them in.

The white-hot tension in Louis’s gut sets in all over again, the long flight and the jet lag combined with the general anxiety of seeing Liam after all these years tearing Louis’s nerves to shreds. Niall keeps a steady hand on Louis’s thigh, as though Louis is a balloon that might fly away if not held down. But flying away is the one thing Louis is sure he won’t do-- not this time. As acutely terrified as he undoubtedly is, Louis has to see this one through. He’s here, and now he has to know. Has to face Zayn and Liam, and chase this resolution. They all deserve it.

The familiar modern circus-top of the O2 looms large above them, as the driver takes them to a discreet side door. Liam’s manager, a woman who introduces herself as Olivia, takes Louis and Niall to the backstage area where Liam is currently resting before the show. Somewhere between the door and the long hall leading them to Liam’s room, Niall takes hold of Louis’s hand, squeezes it to within an inch of its life. But Louis is so numb with pent-up apprehension that he is only minimally aware of it.

Olivia leaves them at the door to Liam’s dressing room. They can hear music playing-- some kind of hip-hop. Niall is the one to knock on the door and step back, Louis half-obscured behind him. The music turns off at the knock, Liam calling out, “Just a tick!” Louis has never wanted to sink through the floor and disappear so badly.

And then-- the door is open. Liam is standing at the threshold in jeans and a plain white t-shirt, beaming.

“Nialler, hey!” Liam says, hugging him. “Good to see you, mate.”

“You too,” Niall says over his shoulder. “Brought that friend I mentioned who wanted to meet you.”

“Right, of course.” Liam lets go of Niall and faces Louis-- and stops dead.

For one second, two seconds, nobody breathes.

“ _Lou_ ,” is the first strangled word that Liam manages. He blinks repeatedly like it might change the image, dissolve the mirage.

But Louis is still standing there, a slight smile now tugging at the corner of his mouth, endeared by how transparent Liam is and always has been.

“Hey,” he says softly.

Niall carefully extricates himself from between them, looking from one to the other with rapt attention. It’s unclear for a moment who will be the first to break the stalemate of shock.

But it’s neither Liam nor Louis.

From behind Liam’s shoulder appears Zayn, whose dark eyes are wide with astonishment.

“Lou!” He edges in front of Liam to get a better look, an incredulous grin playing at the corners of his mouth-- a stark contrast to the unhappy set of Liam’s pursed mouth. Zayn looks exactly as Louis remembers-- slight, delicate, effortlessly beautiful. He's wearing faded gray jeans with one of Liam’s tour t-shirts, which sits loosely on his small frame. He looks like a college student rather than a thirty-year-old man, which-- despite the moment-- strikes Louis as deeply unfair.

“Zayn. Hi.”

“D’you mind if I hug you?” he asks, a proper smirk lighting up his face. “It’s only been an eternity.”

Despite himself, Louis grins, something hard starting to dissolve in his chest. “Yeah, okay.”

And Zayn doesn’t hesitate, steps in front of Liam and hugs Louis close. Louis feels his own surrender, relaxing in Zayn’s arms, his face in Zayn’s neck, breathing in that heady, expensive, indescribable scent that is just Zayn. The set of Zayn’s stance, the rhythm of his breathing, suggests profound relief.

“Missed you, you tosser,” Zayn murmurs into his ear.

When they let go, Zayn greets Niall with a quick hug, then steps back beside Liam on the threshold into the dressing room, a hand on Liam’s wrist. Niall shifts just slightly, standing closer and a little in front of Louis, as though trying to shield him. The four stand stiff, the silence thick and expectant. Louis hazards a glance at Liam, but Liam is staring determinedly at the floor.

Again, it is Zayn who breaks the stalemate, clearing his throat to get everyone’s attention.

“Lou, Nialler. Come in.”

He steps aside, letting them pass into the dressing room. Liam’s vanity is against the wall on the left side, and there are two couches and a couple of chairs facing each other on the other side of the room. Zayn sits on one couch with Liam, and Niall sits on the other, but Louis doesn’t sit down immediately. His blood is too hot, full of bubbles-- restless, as he absorbs every Liam-ish detail of the space: the neatly organized products standing in rows on the dresser, the purple speakers housing his phone, the picture frames he was religious about dragging along on every tour.

Louis remembers that he’d had three back then: the portrait his parents took on their wedding day, which Liam said was his reminder that true love existed; a recent family picture, his parents and two sisters, because he missed them endlessly; and a group picture of Liam’s childhood friends, memories of good times and good people he never wanted to lose.

Now there are more, despite the fact that it’s the digital age and no one prints pictures anymore. Besides the updated family pictures, Liam has a picture of himself on the floor with two dogs climbing on top of him; pictures of his sisters on their wedding days, of Ruth and a laughing baby; and one of the last pictures the four of them took on their last tour together, backstage in Singapore, cheek-to-cheek and crowded into each other’s space, eyes crinkly and smiles wide, like they’re about to burst out laughing.

“I’m glad you still have your pictures,” Louis says, before he can stop himself.

“Thanks,” comes Liam’s answer, so quiet Louis almost misses it.

“Roo has a kid, then.”

“Her name is Daisy,” Zayn volunteers, quickly, as though the words are sprinting across hot coal.

“Cute.” Louis sighs, joins Niall on the couch. “Congratulations.”

Liam nods, still avoiding Louis’s eye.

Zayn clears his throat again, and Louis doesn’t miss the way his hand grabs onto Liam’s knee, squeezes it twice, once firmly and once softly. It does nothing for the tense set of Liam’s shoulders. His face is so tired and yet so closed off that Louis doesn’t know what to do with him, is afraid to even look at him. The knot inside him that’s built up since Niall proposed this insane trip-- that loosened so slightly with Zayn’s warmth-- is inflamed and painful all over again.

“It’s good to see you two,” Zayn says-- bravely, in Louis’s opinion. “Safe flight over?”

“Yup.” Niall takes this one, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Finn continues to be the best."

“And how are you, Louis?” Zayn’s voice takes on a note of desperation. “Well, I hope?”

“Yeah. Yeah, thank you.” Louis wishes he had something more intelligent to say, but his eyes are on Liam again, and Liam’s mouth is puckered like there is lemon on his lips, and it is doing terrible things to Louis’s already-frayed nerves.

Zayn notices too, a sideways glance that turns his expression tender. He lifts his hand from Liam’s knee and interlocks his fingers with Liam, the tightness of his grip seeming to wordlessly plead with Liam to relax. But Liam ducks his head even lower, unconsoled. Louis and Niall exchange heartbroken looks-- Louis because he’s the cause of it, Niall most likely because he brought them here in the first place.

And it can’t go on like this. Zayn looks like he’s lost in a lonely wilderness, and Niall has a thousand regrets in the blush on his cheeks, and Louis is hemorrhaging every second that Liam can’t look at him. It can’t go on like this, and so Louis leans forward, grabs hold of Liam’s knee. Liam jerks like he’s been electrocuted.

“Hey.” Louis’s exhale is shaky, but his voice doesn’t waver. “Liam, please look at me?”

And Liam does, his eyes are so brown and so afraid. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but no words come out. The whole room seems to inhale, Niall and Zayn too, their gazes darting from one to the other, one to the other.

And so all in a rush, Louis says, “I’ve missed you so much, Li. So I let Niall talk me into getting on a plane in the middle of the night, and we got here at dawn, and my body has no idea what time it is anymore, and honestly, I wish I’d done this sooner. I wish I did it, like, a week after the band broke up. Because I’ve missed you and I didn’t know how to tell you that, because you’re probably still mad at me, and--”

“I’m not mad at you,” Liam blurts out. At once, his eyes go wide and horrified, like he can’t believe his own daring. “I--I’m not. Mad. Anymore.”

“No?” His breath hitches in his throat.

Liam shakes his head, biting his lip.

“That’s--that’s wonderful.” Louis looks down and realize his hand is still on Liam’s knee, so he withdraws it in one quick jerk, face hot with embarrassment.

“I...haven’t been mad in a long time,” Liam admits, running a shaky hand through his hair. “I, um. I thought you were mad at me, actually.”

Louis just stares.

“I mean, you’d have every right to be.” He is so flustered, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere above Louis’s shoulder. “I basically drove you out, didn’t I? Out of the band. And all of our lives, too.”

Louis sees Zayn squeeze Liam’s hand again, almost helplessly, because there’s nothing he can do. Liam looks like he’s three seconds from total combustion, cheeks red and breaths shallow, uneven. So Louis grabs Liam’s knee again, like it’s going to keep him from exploding.

“You didn’t do that,” he says. “I mean-- I didn’t have to walk away. I didn’t have to refuse to take any of your calls.”

Liam wrenches his hand from Zayn, buries his face into his palms. When he resurfaces, his eyes are shiny.

“I kept trying to _fix_ you,” he says, barely above a ragged whisper. “I shouldn’t have.”

“I...needed fixing.” Louis’s hand is gentle on Liam’s knee. “I get it. I do. I just wish you didn’t put all of my crap on yourself.”

“I almost called you a hundred times, the last eight years.” Liam takes a deep breath, rests his hand on top of Louis’s. “But I couldn't do it.”

“Well,” Louis says, “then it’s a good thing Niall bribed his pilot to fly us out last night.”

Liam finally offers a watery smile, wry but true. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“I’m not mad,” Louis repeats. “I...don’t know that I ever had the heart to be. I was mad at myself, mostly. For letting you down. I, um.” He clears his throat. “I’m sorry about that. And everything else.”

Liam shakes his head again. “I was the one who let you down. _I’m_ sorry.”

“I told Louis this last night, and I’m going to interrupt here to tell you lot as well,” Niall says, his eyes similarly shiny. “What happened eight years ago was on all of us. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

“I could’ve called you too, Lou,” Zayn adds softly. “I didn't.”

“What’s done is done,” Niall says. “All of that stuff happened a long time ago, and we’re here now. We’re here. So let’s just be _us_ again.”

“Can I give you a hug, then, Li?” Louis asks, rising to his feet.

The first real smile of the day breaks like dawn on Liam’s face. “Yeah. Please.”

\--

Things are easier after that, the tension in the air dissolving into camaraderie. Niall announces that he's starving, and Zayn knows a good Indian place close by that delivers. Liam, ever proper, calls an assistant asking for plates and silverware when the food arrives, while Zayn distributes the napkins and plastic forks from the bag. Niall hogs a whole helping of Tandoori chicken, which Louis immediately tries to fight him for. The plates and silverware are soon delivered to the dressing room by a harassed-looking young assistant, but all it means is that Niall has a sharper fork to threaten Louis with when Louis makes swipes for his chicken. The only way Louis gets even a single piece is when Zayn skillfully negotiates its release by trading two kabobs. The plates are barely even touched, with forks dipping freely in and out of various dishes.

Food has never tasted better, sprawled all over the floor with steaming containers passed around between friends. Liam sits with his back against the couch, as Louis tests how long he can eat while lying on his stomach. And the conversation begins to flow in earnest-- the four of them talking about anything, everything. The easy things, the difficult things. The things that need to be said.

“I was so surprised when Niall called me,” Zayn says, lips red with vindaloo curry. “I mean, we’ve kept in touch, but whenever we talked-- especially when it was the three of us trying to meet up-- it always felt wrong to do it without you, Lou. But Nialler was so insistent that I come down here for Liam’s show, and I was already in Bradford visiting my family, so I came and Liam had no idea what Niall was playing at either."

“I always intended for it to be a surprise,” Niall says, ripping a piece of naan in half for himself and Louis. “I thought if I told you, you’d get weird about it.”

“So you had everything planned out before you even saw my face,” Louis says, half-accusatory and half-impressed.

“Course I did.” Niall shrugs. “You’d called me. Couldn’t waste that opportunity, could I?”

“No, I suppose not.” Louis nibbles on his piece of naan, expression thoughtful. “I just...I was really terrified, when you said you wanted to see Li and Zayn. The whole reason I hadn’t called before was because I didn’t think any of you would want to hear from me. I was the one who fucked everything up, and...and I dunno, it felt like it was too late to fix anything. Like you’d all moved on and I was the only one who ever felt awful for what I’d done.”

“ _Louis_.” Liam’s eyes are shiny again. “I was the one who called the lawyers and filed my paperwork first, because I was an idiot and I thought this was proof of why I should have been a solo artist to begin with. And then when I really was on my own, all I did was miss you three, because I learned every important lesson in my life from being in a band with you. For the first couple of years, I played One Direction stuff on loop in my dressing room before going out for performances because it was the only way I could keep you with me. I didn’t call Zayn or Niall for at least a year, because I was so ashamed for being so wrong about everything.”

“That first year was the worst of them,” Zayn says. “I felt like a casualty of war. I called both of you, Lou, Liam, hoping we could sort it all out, and neither of you called me back. And then I had to stop calling, because I didn’t know how to get in the middle of this thing that involved me but wasn’t really about me. So I went home and tuned everything out and painted for months, and when Liam finally got in touch, I just...went with it. And I thought you’d do the same, Lou. That you’d call me when you were ready.” He bites down hard on his lip, his beautiful face distressed. He looks like he might say something more, but doesn’t, mouth opening and then closing in a troubled pucker.

Louis puts down his naan, hugs his knees to his chest. “I don’t blame you, Z. You, and Liam, and you, too, Nialler-- you were all doing the best you could. It was on me to call and fix things, and I didn’t."

“It wasn’t just on you,” Zayn says quietly. “I made an assumption, and I shouldn’t have. Giving up on people, like a phone connection, goes both ways. I should’ve fought harder for you, and I’m sorry I didn’t, Lou.”

“So what made you call Niall this time?” Liam asks. “What changed?”

What indeed. Louis’s head whirls with all that has fractured and shaken his world in the last two weeks. There is too much to reveal at once, so he settles on a watered-down version of the truth. “I guess I just...well, I had this project I was working on, and Eleanor and I got to talking about crossroads, and she told me that I could either keep doing what I was doing, or I could make a change-- confront the thing that was still weighing on me. So I asked her for Niall’s number, because I figured he would be the least likely to hate me, and...and here we are.”

“Remind me to send that woman an excellent fruit basket later,” Niall says, light tone at odds with the soft look on his face.

“Whatever she said that got you to call, I’m grateful she said it,” Liam says, fingers timidly skimming Louis’s arm, which is still wrapped around his calves like the shell of a self-contained turtle. “I’m grateful you were brave enough to reach out to us, when we weren’t brave enough to try again.”

Louis rests his cheek against his knuckles, gazes sideways at Liam, who has put down his fork and is watching Louis intently. Liam’s arms are open, loose, like he wants a hug but doesn’t know how to ask for one. There has been so much misunderstanding here, so much misplaced blame and so many wasted years between all of them. The smile comes slowly to Louis’s face, like spring thawing the last of winter’s frost.

He stretches his legs, gathers his foodstuffs, and crawls to where Liam is sitting with his back against the couch. Liam shifts over at once to make room, the two of them sitting with their legs pressed together, ankles crossing. On an impulse, Louis rests his head against Liam’s shoulder, feels as Liam’s breath catches and then relaxes. Niall and Zayn have identical smiles on their faces, as Liam’s arm snakes around Louis’s waist to squeeze him closer.

“Glad you’re back, Lou,” Liam says.

“Glad you’ll have me, Bean,” Louis responds, stealing Liam’s naan out of his other hand and taking a large bite.

Liam just chuckles, and offers Louis the rest of his chicken, too-- which Louis takes, and promptly lords over Niall, and reluctantly shares with Zayn. The teasing is light and more than a little bit ridiculous, four grown men laughing like children over who gets how much of their shared take-out-- but as Zayn and Niall scoot closer to Louis and Liam, limbs colliding and laughter overlapping, it all feels like a goddamn miracle.

Because for right now, for this little slice of time in this little dressing room in London, their ineffable and long-dormant bond has come flickering, then flaring, back to life. They are all a part of something again, a part of each other-- Louis too, Liam refusing to let go of him-- and when Liam rests his head on Louis’s, cheek warm in Louis’s hair, Louis thinks, _this_. This must be what peace feels like.

It’s sweet, dreamy around the edges, but rooted in a gravity stronger and purer than logic. It’s like that wild, restless part of Louis always sprinting in barefoot circles around his heart has found home. Like things are good now, really and truly good, because he’s made it and it’s okay. Everything is finally, finally okay.

\--

Over the course of the afternoon, the conversation is punctuated with reminiscences and random bursts of singalong songs and comfortable lulls. At one point, Niall is lying flat on the couch, his arm hanging over the edge and acting as a canvas for Zayn, who is doodling swirly designs into his skin with a ballpoint pen he unearthed from somewhere. Louis and Liam shout out suggestions, more distracting than inspiring, from where they sit on the floor-- Louis nestled in Liam’s lap, Liam’s arms wrapped securely around his middle like a teddy bear. When Niall finally withdraws his arm, complaining about how the pen is scratchy, Louis offers his arm instead, holding still while Zayn draws flowers and comic book characters up his forearm, Liam oohing and aahing as he digs his chin into Louis’s shoulder to watch.

They relearn each other’s rhythms and idiosyncrasies, their life stories and who they’ve become now. Zayn talks about the comic book he’s been writing for the last two years. Liam is working on a new album, but has been stuck with writer’s block. Niall has been thinking about taking a backpacking trip through Southeast Asia for the past few months. Louis prefers to listen to his bandmates talk rather than share at these points, interrupting only to ask them more questions.

Unfortunately, however, Liam’s door is eventually opened by his manager, Olivia. She looks perturbed by the four of them tangled up together on the couch, but chooses not to comment on it. Instead, she tells Liam he has some things to do before the performance starts, gives him a stern look when Liam shows signs of wanting to beg off. Louis plants a wet, sloppy kiss on Liam’s cheek, says, “Go get ‘em, tiger,” which at least brings a grudging smile to Liam’s face as he disentangles himself from Louis.

Niall decides to take Liam’s place, smelling strongly of peanut butter from his milkshake, and watches Zayn work on Louis’s other arm, this time drawing an intricate henna design starting at Louis’s fingertips and sprawling up to his elbow. Louis sighs, says, “I think I need to get to a tattoo parlor tomorrow and have them make all this permanent.”

“Nah, it’s just for fun,” Zayn says, though his grin is clearly flattered. “Beautiful things aren’t always meant to kept captive, you know?”

“Then you should design me something beautiful I _can_ get tattooed somewhere,” Louis decides.

“Maybe.” Zayn pauses from his handiwork to draw a little heart under Louis’s collarbone. “Now that you’re going to be visiting me all the time, we can work something out.”

“Hey, what about _you_ visiting _me_?”

“We’ll do that too,” Zayn says, “but I hate flying, so you’ll have to take a few for the team.”

“Oh, all right. Hey, could I borrow my hand for a sec to see if El’s texted?”

Zayn lifts his pen and Louis takes his phone from his pocket, knocking Niall’s arm out of the way to do so. Niall just squeezes Louis’s waist harder, watches with interest as Louis unlocks his phone. Indeed, Louis’s tingling Eleanor senses were correct: she’d texted an hour ago, asking how he was doing in London, if he’d seen Liam and Zayn yet.

So Louis texts back with a grin: _yeah, saw them. hugged them. all’s good._

Eleanor’s response comes back right away with a string of multi-colored heart emojis, and a promise to call her when he could.

“She really is the best,” Niall remarks, as Louis puts his phone away and gives his arm back to Zayn. “Sure we can’t fly her out here too? Free Liam Payne concert tickets, who could say no to that?”

“She’d say she wouldn’t want to get in the middle of my reunion, no matter how much you assured her it was fine,” Louis says. “But hey, you can always come to New York whenever you’re in the mood to abuse your jet and your pilot. She’d love to see you, I’m sure.”

“I haven’t seen Eleanor since One Direction,” Zayn muses. “Talked to her a bunch of times on the phone, but I’m either in L.A. or in Bradford, and she’s usually in New York.”

“You’ll have to brave a trip out there some time too, Z,” Louis points out. “I have to show you the bright lights and the garbage and the consumerism and the traffic. It’s all truly a sight to behold.”

Zayn snorts, but he doesn’t dismiss the idea outright. “Maybe. I’ll have some time this summer, most likely.”

“Good. I’ll show you around, then.” The idea of another reunion, of many years of reunions with his bandmates, sets off rainbow fireworks in the pit of Louis’s gut.

Just then, however, the door opens-- Liam, beaming. “Oi,” he says, three heads turning to look up at him. “Want to come see the stage?”

Zayn puts down his pen and Louis helps Niall to his feet, and they follow Liam out through the familiar doors and tunnels, the kind they moved through so often as a band-- even here, at the O2, several times. When they do come out on stage, where the crew is still putting everything together and the seats in the venue are all empty, a hush falls over them, looking out at the vast space that will be filled to capacity tonight-- this enormous place, every seat occupied by a body excited to see Liam sing, excited to share their night with Liam and each other.

The feeling in Louis’s chest-- tight, wondrous, warmth tinged with melancholy-- is complicated. Whatever else One Direction was, whatever lasting damage it did to all of them, being on this stage and performing for sold-out crowds together was nothing short of magical. He remembers this pre-show anticipation, the preparation for a long, adrenaline-fueled night with his best friends beside him. He remembers how much he used to love just making music, singing out the words he helped to write with the people he loved most.

Instinctively he takes Liam’s hand, and Zayn’s, watches Zayn take Niall’s hand to complete the chain. They glance at each other, then back out again, the curved arena walls like an enormous cathedral, a sacred space humming with activity.

“Wish I could bring you lot out with me tonight,” Liam murmurs. “It’s _some_ thing, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Zayn agrees. “God, it really is.”

Louis’s hand is firm in Liam’s. “You know there’s no going back, Li. We’re not One Direction anymore. We’re not kids in a boyband. All of this...it’s not who we are anymore.”

“So you’d never do it, then?” Liam asks. “You’d never sing for thousands of people again, if you could?”

“I don’t know,” Louis says honestly. “I really don’t. But if somehow I ever did, it wouldn’t be like it was. I would be...myself. I’d do it my own way. Because I don’t want to go back, Liam. I think...I think I want to go forward.”

He feels their eyes on him, Liam and Zayn and Niall, wondering what he means, exactly. But clarity has never shined so brightly inside of him, flooding his spirit with white light.

Because for the first time since the band broke up, Louis’s past stays past, and the present is luminous, and the future is a forbidden door finally creaking open. And the air on the other side is cool and fragrant, like it’s been waiting for him all along. And standing on the vastness of this stage bathed in fluorescence with his boys here and holding him steady, Louis knows in his bones that it’s time. Time, finally, to let go.

That old fear that has been his old and constant companion falls away, dissolves into nothing. Louis pulls Zayn into him, and Liam, and Niall on the edge, a jostle of a group hug that somehow ends with the four of them in a bruised heap on the floor, laughing and wincing on top of each other, oblivious to the side-eyes they’re getting from the crew.

It feels like the end of an era, the middle of a memory-- the beginning of something better.

\--

Liam’s concert is deafening, energetic, and full of color. He looks at home on the stage under all that light, the screen full of lyrics and images behind him. He riles the crowd up between songs, expertly getting them to cheer and stomp and holler his name. The noise is unbelievable, especially from the floor, the stadium seeming to vibrate with the collective screams of the masses. The energy is infectious, everyone dancing and singing along to every word, Liam just beyond their fingertips, staging a full charm offensive for the sold-out crowd. He seems to transcend himself as a performer, enough that even Louis, who has known Liam since the age of eighteen, forgets that this radiant star is _his_ Liam, the one whose lap Louis used as a chair all afternoon. Liam truly was born for the stage, for the joy he can bring with not just his voice, but his very being.

Niall, Zayn, and Louis have a tremendous time dancing together by the stage, sometimes shrieking along with the other fans and thrusting their hands towards Liam, hoping he’ll brush their fingers with his. Liam gets an extra twinkle in his eye when he sees this, and he can’t resist giving them high fives, sending them into pretend fangirl hysterics. A few of the parental escorts nearby seem a little confused by their behavior, but that just makes the three of them laugh harder.

When it’s over, and the crowds are flowing towards the exits, Zayn leads the way backstage into Liam’s dressing room again. Liam is there already, chugging a water bottle, chest heaving with activity and t-shirt drenched in sweat. The scent of him is pungent the moment the door opens, but none of them care. Niall launches himself at Liam first, then Louis and Zayn. Liam tries to shove them all away, begging them to let him take a shower, but Louis decides that this would be a great time to take a group shower, locker room style, and wear Liam’s tour gear as pajamas. Zayn seconds the motion and Niall leads the charge to the bathroom, cackling maniacally as he turns on the freezing water.

After a messy, confusing blur of frigid shower water and a raid of the tour shop, the four gather back in Liam’s dressing room. They did this sometimes as a band, too, if they were ever playing multiple shows in the same city. The hotel means getting in a car to go somewhere else, and they're too tired to leave but awake enough to want to sit around a while, maybe over a mug of something warm. Liam lets Olivia know-- Liam snorts as he reads her text, reports that she isn't thrilled but she's cleared it with security-- then Liam asks an assistant to bring them hot chocolate right where they are. Louis has the brilliant idea to make a mega couch by bringing the two dressing room sofas together facing each other. Niall lies horizontally across one of the couches, Liam tucks in beside him, and Zayn decides that he hasn’t had his turn to cuddle Louis yet, so he sits perpendicular to the two of them, hooks his feet over Niall’s ankles and settles Louis beside him.

The hot chocolate arrives soon enough, and that helps calm the frenzied mood a little, forces them to be still enough not to disturb their mugs even as they giggle at each other’s whipped cream mustaches. Zayn uses Louis’s hip as a table for his mug, until Louis decides to roll over and see if his arse can support the mug without help. Zayn takes out his phone, films the attempt. Turns out that despite its impressive curvature, Louis’s bum makes a viable table, causing Liam to whoop and Niall to cackle all over again.

“Tommo, your arse is the world’s eighth wonder,” Niall decides, lifting Zayn’s hot chocolate to give Louis’s bum an appreciative pat, delighting in its slight jiggle. “Truly, it is a thing of beauty.”

“Has anyone laid claim to this arse yet?” Liam asks. “Who gets to make this arse breakfast everyday, eh?”

“Only the cafe round the corner, I’m afraid,” Louis says, gazing up at Liam from where he’s still lying on his stomach. “This arse belongs to no man but me.”

“Really?” Liam looks disappointed.

“I have led a relatively boring existence,” Louis says, though there is no bitterness to the observation. “I don’t like dating. Too much work that ends up going nowhere.”

“Only because you haven’t met the right person yet,” Liam says. “Gotta keep trying, Lou.”

“I don’t have to do any such thing,” Louis counters, holding up Zayn’s mug so that he can roll over to his back again. “I’m still a mess, professionally. Should probably sort that out first, before I get into any expensive romantic entanglements.”

“Yeah, you mentioned you had this project recently, the one you were talking to El about,” Niall says. “What is it?”

Louis’s eyes immediately go wide, like a frightened doe. Liam and Zayn look at him with interest, the same question in their eyes. But Louis’s stomach-- otherwise quiet today-- double knots into itself, his nerves on high alert.

“I, um. It’s...complicated?”

“Did you have to sign an NDA?” Liam asks.

“Not exactly…”

Zayn, who can feel Louis tensing up against his body, nuzzles his face up against Louis’s neck, their bodies pressed close and snug together. “Hey, you can tell us anything, love, you know that, right?”

“I know…” Louis swallows thickly, his muscles still tight even as Zayn starts a light massage to Louis’s shoulder. “It’s just a long story, and not a particularly thrilling one, so.”

“We've got time, mate,” Niall says, rubbing an encouraging foot against Louis’s calf.

“We don’t want to push you,” Liam says, “but if you want to talk, we want to listen.”

This Louis doesn’t doubt. With the four of them sprawled in such close quarters on this double-couch cocoon they’ve made, warm with cocoa and shared intimacy and fresh merchandise with Liam’s face on them, he knows they mean well. But sharing himself is not an instinct Louis has ever had, and so it takes him a few moments to gather himself, sipping his hot chocolate for more time, reminding himself to reciprocate the trust his friends have shown him all day with their stories and secrets.

“Well,” he begins, “I’m supposed to be writing a song. Which I haven’t properly done since forever. And it’s supposed to be for Taylor Swift’s comeback album, because apparently she was a big One Direction fan back in the day.”

“Ooh, I’ve heard about that project!” Niall says. “Congratulations, Lou, that’s quite the honor. She’s kept the circle tight.”

“I think I remember Taylor Swift.” Liam grins. “Wasn’t she the one whose manager kept calling us because she wanted to set something up with me?”

“That’s the one.” Louis tries to smile, but the effort is weak. “Anyway, she gave me a week and a half to write her a duet about strength. And I, being me, could not do it on my own, so after one disastrous attempt with Eric Reynolds--”

“I know Eric,” Niall interrupts with a shudder. “Lord, he’s awful. Why didn’t you call me sooner, Lou? I would’ve found you someone decent.”

“Well, I did find someone. Met him by accident, actually.” Louis’s cheeks redden, thinking of that afternoon with the headshots, Harry and his camera and his easy smiles. “We, um. Had some ups and downs, but we got the song done in time and it was a pretty great song, if I do say so myself. Only, Taylor decided to tweak the whole thing so it would go with the rest of her album, and she basically fucked it all up. And I couldn’t do much about that, so my lyricist now hates me. Which, you know, I wish he didn’t, but...yeah.”

“Why couldn’t you do anything about Taylor fucking it up?” Zayn asks with a frown. “And how exactly did she fuck it up?”

“It’s her album, her rodeo, so to speak.” Louis shrugs. “She liked what she’d come up with, for whatever ungodly reason, and I wasn’t about to argue myself out of a job. I’d written a piano-based ballad and she decided she wanted a stronger beat, a bunch of synths and guitars, and a bridge with inferior lyrics.”

“Do you have the audio on you, by any chance?” Liam chimes in. “Her version, or yours?”

“I refused to let her version eat up a single byte of my phone’s memory, thank you very much.”

“Then do you have your demo?”

Louis hesitates. “Maybe...”

“I’m just curious to see what you did originally,” Liam says. “Just so I can understand your lyricist’s perspective a bit better. Do you mind playing it?”

The song that he had been so proud to show Eleanor and Taylor suddenly brings a blush to Louis’s cheeks. After seeing Liam perform all his greatest hits, Louis finds himself shy about playing his little demo recorded in Ed’s home studio. But Liam looks so eager that Louis sighs, gives in, finds the audio file on his phone and sets it down on his lap to play.

It’s the first time he’s listened to it since Taylor gave them the job. It feels like ages ago now-- before she fucked up the song, before Louis had fucked up with Harry. Before Louis had called Niall. But curled safely into Zayn’s slender body, feeling every slow, steady breath Zayn takes against his skin, he listens to himself and Harry sing, and a lump grows in his throat, hearing the obvious sincerity in their voices. Harry’s words come to life with Louis’s careful harmonies, Harry’s low tone intertwined with Louis’s naturally higher tenor to create remarkable balance, bringing out the best in both of them. It’s like Louis can hear in the swell of their vocals the sweet, spontaneous kisses they shared on Ed’s floor right after they recorded-- like their naked lust has soaked into every note out of their mouths. It’s almost as embarrassing as it is lovely to listen to, as the song ends and Louis glances up at Liam, Niall, and Zayn to discern their reactions.

There is a hush after the final notes fade out, like all four of them are holding their breaths.

Then Liam looks Louis right in the eye and says, “You can’t let her change a single thing about this, Louis. You _can’t_.”

“You, um.” Louis tries to clear his exceedingly dry throat. “You like it, then?”

“If she won’t change it back to what it was, I am going to call her people myself and scream at them until they give you the song back to release yourself,” Liam answers. “She can’t put guitars on this. She can’t add a bridge. It should be a goddamn felony. She honestly shouldn’t even get to sing it with you.”

“Jesus fuck, Lou, why are you giving her a golden chicken to turn into chicken shit?” Zayn gives Louis’s bum a firm smack. “I’m with the lyricist on this one. I kind of hate you too.”

“Put down another one for Team Lyricist,” Niall says, adding a gratuitous kick of his own to Louis’s thigh. “This is why you need us, Lou. Can you believe you were going to back down on this fight without consulting us? Shameful.”

“Lads.” Louis’s cheeks are a blotchy red as he attempts to regain control of this conversation. “I appreciate the valor-- truly, I do-- but I need this job. A little desperately.”

“Louis, you could literally post this demo as it is on YouTube, the lads and I could promo the shit out of it, and we could get you a freshly inked contract of your own to do a feature album within a month.” Liam’s tone is all business. “I’m guessing this is the lyricist singing with you?”

“Yes?”

“Well, you and your lyricist could launch a thousand think pieces about why duets should come into vogue, and you could make a killing off this little clip on its own. Why the fuck are you willing to just give it away to Taylor Swift?”

“She asked me to.” But this sounds feeble even to Louis’s own ears, and all three of them know it.

“Listen. With a song like this, she needs you more than you need her,” Liam says. “Why she’s stupid enough to ruin this amazing thing that fell into her lap is a separate conversation.”

“Who is this lyricist, anyway?” Zayn asks. “He can _sing_.”

“His name is Harry.” Just saying his name burns Louis from the inside out.

“Harry who? Have I heard of him?” Niall asks.

“You wouldn’t have, no. He doesn’t write professionally.”

“Well, he should,” Liam says. “What does he do?”

“He’s a baker.”

The dumbfoundedness in Niall’s stare is almost insulting. “Louis Tomlinson, how the fuck did you convince a random baker to write you the best song I’ve heard all year?”

Louis can’t help it; he laughs, nervous and squirmy. “I just...had an inkling.”

They all go silent once more-- except Niall, who explodes in genuine anger, “Oi, you filthy liar, you told me you weren’t seeing anybody right now!”

“I wasn’t lying!” Louis protests, his face bright red. “I’m not seeing him! Didn’t I just tell you he hates me?”

“There’s a story here,” Niall insists. “What’s going on with you and this Harry?”

“Styles,” Louis supplies helpfully. “Harry Styles is his name.”

“I am going to do some light e-stalking with that information,” Niall says, phone on in his hand already, “and you, meanwhile, are going to tell us what’s going on.”

“He’s right, you know,” Zayn says, sitting up straighter on the couch and shifting so that he's got an arm securely around Louis’s waist but can still maintain eye contact. “Go on. Spill.”

There’s no escape from this. Zayn’s arm is like a seatbelt on a rocketship, holding Louis firmly in place even as the ground beneath his feet blasts off into the stratosphere. Niall’s fingers are quick and nimble on his phone, and Liam’s arms are crossed, waiting too.

And it’s not like Louis has had any secrets for the last two weeks anyway. Harry already saw to it that his usual defense mechanisms were demolished into sad bundles of ash, and Eleanor has left her own footprints among the wreckage. He doesn’t have much left anymore in the way of resistance, especially not with his bandmates staring him down like there’s a matter of national security locked inside his head. His sigh is long and world-weary, as the whole reason for Louis’s prodigal-son-esque return comes around full circle.

But he does. He tells them everything, as calmly as he knows how, from the very beginning.

The story isn’t much easier to tell the second time, Louis still wincing to himself at all the difficult bits, averting his eyes to avoid watching the others wince at him too. To his credit, Zayn only squeezes Louis more tightly when Louis recounts something painful. He tries to let it bolster him, as he recounts those painful things. And when he’s done, Zayn presses a sympathetic kiss to the side of Louis’s neck.

“You okay, Lou?” he asks.

“Yeah, I think so.” Louis forces himself to sit up straight, though Zayn never lets go of his hip. “It’s just...well, I’m a complete prat, I think. And I made mistakes. And it _sucks_.”

“Mistakes aren’t the end-all, be-all of the human experience,” Liam reminds him gently. “This is...well, a bit messy. But not unfixable.”

“It’s not even that messy,” Niall says. “You have more negotiating power over that song than you realize, Tommo. Use it. Make her understand its value, or make it clear that there are other takers for it that will honor your original vision. Then call Harry, apologize, and tell him how you feel. That you’ve had a hard time, but you want to start again, give it a proper go this time. Boom, done.”

“It can’t be that easy,” Louis argues. “I mean... _fuck_ , I let him think I felt Sebastian Hamilton, patron saint of pretentious douchebags, was right about him.”

“That was careless,” Zayn concedes, “but it’s not unforgivable.”

“For Harry, it is.”

“That’s an awfully big presumption to make, though, don’t you think?” Zayn’s eyes are so unfair, endless sparkling layers of warm brown. “Haven’t we just seen what happens when we assume things about each other?”

“It’s just--”

Louis tries to explain, but Niall interjects again, electric blue gaze holding firmly to Louis’s, “Mate, you are an extraordinary masochist, you know that? You are. Because this has been hard enough. You’ve punished yourself enough. Now pull yourself together, and figure out what you’re going to say to get your man back.”

“I don’t think he was ever really mine, though,” Louis says, voice quiet and a little broken. “I, um. I don’t think I could be his, either. Not without nuclear disaster. There’s...a lot of baggage. I don’t know how to be anyone’s boyfriend, or anyone’s anything.”

“Louis, listen to me,” Liam says. He takes Louis’s hands in both of his, holds on firmly. “I know that you like your walls, and your space, and that it might feel easier to be alone when you spent years dealing with ruthless people who were careless with your heart. But no one goes into new relationships _knowing_ how to be anything. You just have to take the risk, and care enough about the other person to talk it through and figure it out.”

“I do care, but…” Louis’s voice sounds so small, so breakable. “But he scares me. He wants the world from me, and I don’t know if I can give him that.”

“So _tell him_ ,” Liam says. “And if he cares about you-- which, I think that he does-- then he’ll be happy with whatever you can willingly give.”

“But you can’t _know_ that.”

“No,” Liam agrees. “No one can know for sure. But I listened to your song, Lou, and I think what Harry and me and Niall and Zayn are all trying to tell you is, _it’s all right, calling out for somebody to hold tonight_.”

“Are you really quoting Harry’s lyric back at me right now?” Louis offers a fragile smile.

“Well, he wrote it,” Liam says. “And you both sang it. Sounded like you meant it.”

“Maybe,” Louis sighs.

“You should call him,” Liam says, “when you get back to New York. He’ll want to hear from you.”

“Mate, you solved one of TMZ’s biggest celebrity falling out of the twenty-first century besides Demi and Selena with a phone call and a plane ride,” Niall points out. “Don’t tell me you’re not a miracle man when you want to be.”

Despite everything, Louis chuckles softly. “Yeah, maybe. We’ll see.”

Liam looks like he wants to press the point again, but he doesn’t. Instead, he lets go of Louis’s hand, shifts the conversation towards a different topic, granting Louis a desperately welcome reprieve. Liam, Niall, and Zayn chatter amongst themselves, Zayn resuming his massage of Louis’s shoulders while he speaks, and so Louis lets his mind wander, overwhelmed with all this day has had to offer. Liam and Zayn, and now the promise of Harry, in one evening. He doesn’t even know where to begin processing it all. Liam’s words bounce restlessly in the empty space inside his head, refusing to let Louis rest. He is exhausted from the travel and the excitement, and he really wants nothing more than a long, dreamless sleep, but his mind struggles to turn off and drift into unconsciousness, even here in Zayn’s arms. He remains awake, even as he stops listening to what’s being said.

The others don’t seem to have this problem. The toll of the concert and the surprise visit force their bodies to react in perfectly normal ways, sending them into gradual slumber mid-conversation, hands still wrapped around the handles of their empty hot chocolate mugs. Liam and Niall are spooned on one half of the couch, while Zayn falls asleep sitting up, slumped over Louis, drooling a little into the shoulder of Louis’s t-shirt. Louis stays where he is for a little while, listening to his bandmates snore, before he feels bad for what this must be doing to Zayn’s neck and carefully gets up, arranges Zayn alongside the other two. Zayn notices nothing, sleeps on. That leaves Louis still awake-- at two in the morning, according to his phone-- pacing the room alone, wondering what to do with himself.

He ultimately decides to go exploring, see the O2 when it’s quiet and dark and everyone’s gone. He figures Liam’s team is camped out at a hotel, with at least a few sleeping on one of the buses-- close by, since they're technically breaking the rules. There’s no one in their wing, anyway, Louis’s footsteps echoing like a horror movie all alone. He tries to get back out to the main stage again, but the doors are heavily locked and secured. So Louis keeps wandering, until he stumbles upon the storage room where the instruments are kept. This particular lock is easy enough to pick-- a convenient oversight-- so Louis steals inside, fumbles until he finds the light switch.

The first thing he sees is the piano near the center of the room, almost as though it’s waiting for him. He takes a seat at the bench, flips open the lid, runs his fingers across the cool ivory keys. His hands settle like it’s an instinct, play a basic chord into the heavy silence of the little room. It rings out pure, seems to fill something up inside him that he can’t explain. He inhales sharply, but exhales slowly, an idea beginning to coalesce in the back of his mind.

There is no paper here, no yellow legal pad and blue pen like in his apartment waiting and waiting for inspiration to strike. So Louis takes his phone out of his pocket, turns on the voice memos, and begins.

It’s the kind of creative coming together that inspires the timeless cliches: that aha! moment, that lightning in a bottle moment. The words seem to write themselves, the chords flowing from his hands like they were percolating in his head all along and only found their way out now. Like this is the song he’s been trying to write for the last two weeks, maybe even for the last ten years. The catharsis is so all-consuming and complete that it’s almost painless-- a burst of everlasting sun in his chest, the light cutting through every gray and painful thing until there’s nothing left but the humming silence of this small, inconsequential storage room, the strong and vital beat of Louis’s heart.

He doesn’t know how long he sits at the piano singing to his phone. He doesn’t look at the time; it’s just not important. He sings until he feels done, until everything that needs to be said has been recorded. He feels spent, and yet more alive than he’s been in years. He saves the last audio file as “For Your Eyes Only,” turns his phone off, and sits still for a few minutes, listening to himself breathe, staring at the black-and-white keys until they all blur together.

\--

He doesn’t even realize he’s fallen asleep until he feels a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. Liam, hair flopping into his eyes, looking concerned.

“There you are, Lou,” he says. “Was wondering where you’d gone off to. I was going to send out a search party in a minute.”

“Felt like a nighttime stroll,” Louis mumbles, yawning. “What’s the time, anyway?”

“Five in the morning.”

Louis groans. “Please tell me you didn’t wake up to go for a run.”

Liam just grins. “Fine, I won’t tell you, then. But you can join me if you like.”

Louis shudders. “I think I’ll go occupy your vacated warm spot on the couch and catch a nap.”

“Niall and Zayn are still there. You’ll be in good company.” Liam hesitates, chews on his lower lip. “So, um. What were you doing here last night, exactly? If you don’t mind my asking?”

“I don’t.” Louis gestures to his phone on top of the piano. “I was writing.”

A smile plays at the corner of Liam’s lips, for a second making him look like he’s nineteen and mischievous again. “Couldn’t sleep after our talk last night, eh?”

“No.” Louis grins back languidly. “It’s your superpower, Payno. I never sleep when I’m with you. So I have to find other ways to occupy my nights.”

“Can I hear it?” Liam asks.

The old impulse kicks weakly-- _no, no, my heart is not a place where you are allowed._  But Liam’s eyes are so wide and sweet, and Louis is tired, tired in every way he can imagine. Tired of saying no, of always resisting. So he hands Liam his phone, tells him to play the last voice memo. For good measure, he scoots down on the piano bench, giving Liam a place to sit. And Liam does, places the phone on the lid of the piano between them. Closes his eyes, presses play.

The finished song on Louis’s phone is three minutes and fifty-eight seconds. Liam does not move, or speak-- he barely even breathes-- for a single moment.

And, like when he heard “Home,” a hush falls over him after the last notes of piano fade out. When Liam’s eyes finally open and meet Louis’s, Louis sees that they are shiny.

“I think you just wrote the apology song to end all apology songs,” Liam says.

Louis blushes. “I don’t know what you--”

“It’s for Harry, isn’t it? The lyricist?”

There’s no point in lying, so Louis says nothing, just takes his phone back and slips it into his pocket. Liam rests a warm hand on Louis’s thigh.

“You should play it for him,” says Liam.

“This isn’t one of those romantic comedies where Hugh Grant magically makes everything right in the last twenty minutes, Li.” Louis takes a deep, shuddering breath. “It’s a song, and it had to be done, and-- and that’s that.”

“Play it for him,” Liam repeats, his expression tender. “He’ll understand.”

Louis sighs, shrugs. Something about the look on his face, the way his shoulders curl inward, makes Liam straddle the piano bench and pull Louis into a hug.

“The reason you are such a good musician and writer,” Liam says in Louis’s ear, “is because you feel things in every atom of your body. And that can be hard, because it’s so constant. But don’t run from those feelings, Lou. Write, and sing, your way through them.”

Liam lets go, takes Louis’s smaller hands in both of his. “This is so beautiful my teeth ache. You still have it in you-- a whole career of albums about the way you feel the world. Trust your own talent.”

He squeezes Louis’s hands, then gets up from the bench and goes for his run, leaving Louis alone on the piano bench again, his heart a hollow, weightless thing floating somewhere near the ceiling. He has to take several calming breaths before he’s ready to stumble back to the dressing room, back to the double couch where Niall and Zayn are still blissfully asleep. There’s a Louis-sized space between their bodies, as though they always planned to bookend him, protect him while he slept. He climbs in, feels Niall’s head nestle near his armpit, Zayn’s arm wrapping around his waist. They don’t know what they’re doing, but it means the earth to Louis anyway.

Sleep doesn’t take long to come for him this time.

\--

Louis doesn’t stir until eleven, when the others are already awake. Liam had ordered breakfast, and the three of them are eating and speaking quietly until they see Louis sitting up and rubbing his eyes-- at which point Niall returns to full volume, chirps, “Morning, Lou! Have some bacon!” He gestures to the plate on heavily laden table beside him.

“Morning,” Louis says, stifling a yawn as he helps himself to the aforementioned bacon. “How’re things?”

“We’re all trending on Twitter today,” Liam says. “A few media outlets have already picked it up and run with it.”

“They’re so lazy,” Zayn complains through a mouthful of bagel, shaking his head. “Twitter trends should not be news unless they’re important.”

“Hashtag 1D reunion!” Niall beams. “I think that’s _extremely_ important.”

“Wait, but how do they know?” Louis is already on Twitter, staring at the trend in disbelief.

“Apparently, your little dance party in the pit didn’t go unnoticed last night,” Liam says with a smirk. “A few people recognized you three, promptly lost their shit, took a bunch of pictures and plastered them all over social media. Everyone still thinks we hate each other’s guts-- you and me in particular, Lou-- so it’s big news.”

“They need to get a life,” Louis decides, taking a large bite of his bacon.

“My team wants us to respond,” Liam says. “Post something on Twitter, I don’t know.”

“Post what, exactly?” Zayn wrinkles his nose. “They have the pictures already.”

“We have until tonight to figure it out.” Liam is tucking into scrambled eggs now.

“Tonight?” Louis looks confused.

“Yes, the last show of my tour tonight. Which you are staying for, because I have not gotten nearly enough of your face yet. That a problem?” Liam arches an eyebrow in challenge.

Louis grins into his bacon. “No, not a problem. Her Royal Highness Taylor Swift hasn’t given me a rehearsal date yet, so. I’m good.”

“Excellent.” Liam smiles around his eggs, gives Louis’s calf a gentle kick with his sock-clad foot. “So. We have the day to ourselves, just have to be back by seven so I can get on stage at nine. What do you lot want to do?”

\--

The answer, it turns out, is to collect their own, newly-clean clothes from the laundry, have enormous fun creating impeccable disguises with Liam’s styling team, and let themselves loose upon the city of London.

The freedom of their anonymity is intoxicating-- no one looking, no one taking pictures, no one asking questions. Zayn somehow lets himself get talked into dressing up for the day as a woman-- Louis’s girlfriend Veronica, they tell everyone who sells them a tourist ticket-- wearing purple skinny jeans and a curly brown wig, a pair of clip-on earrings and fake breast and bum pads, to Louis and Niall’s wild delight. Zayn performs the gratuitous whining and complaining, but really, he enjoys the novelty of it, the fun of making his friends giggle. He also rather enjoys the way he makes men’s heads turn, triggering Louis’s loud, exasperated diatribe that Zayn is simply too beautiful for his own good, turning androgyny into a high art form.

In response to a gaggle of interested teenagers near the London Eye, Liam plants a spontaneous kiss on Zayn’s mouth-- a kiss that extends long past the teenagers walking away, and is involved enough that Niall has to pull Liam away and Louis has to add, in awed disbelief, if they have something they’d like to share with the class. Liam is unreadable, but Zayn has a rather soft grin on his face, lingering close to Liam for the rest of the afternoon despite happily continuing to play Louis’s girlfriend.

They get back in the nick of time for Liam to get ready for the stage, earning themselves a lecture from Olivia about schedules and responsibility that feels like a relic of their boyband pasts. Liam waves Olivia off, goes to wash the make-up off his face. Louis, Niall, and Zayn go on a quick office supply run, picking up poster board and colorful markers so they can be prepared for the show.

And it’s another smashing success, this one particularly fueled by the adrenaline of knowing this is the final one, the last hurrah before the tour closes up shop. The signs the guys make send Liam into paroxysms of laughter on stage, even with everyone watching; it takes him at least three or four minutes to calm down enough to continue the performance. And when the show is over, the fireworks and the thank you’s and the many, many kisses Liam blows to the audience (Niall pretends to catch one and shrieks so loudly that a little girl nearby falls over), the four reunite backstage, and Liam says he’s figured out what their response to the speculation should be.

He takes his phone out of his pocket and holds it up for a group selfie. Niall immediately snatches the phone from him, sets up the shot himself so that all of them can crowd in, cheek to cheek and laughing, exuding such obvious joy. Liam writes a three-word caption for Twitter: _all the love .xx_

He doesn’t post it right away. For a minute, they crowd around Liam and look down at the phone, at this picture, their happy faces. Together, finally. They let the moment be only theirs just a little longer, before Liam posts it, lets the world share the reunion too.

One Direction doesn’t exist anymore, but it doesn’t have to. Because Louis, Liam, Niall, and Zayn are all here, running arm in arm in a chain back to Liam’s dressing room, where they beg Liam’s exhausted styling team to remake their disguises from today. This time, there aren’t contracts or obligations or millions of dollars riding on their eighteen-year-old backs. There are only four friends, close friends, who have grown up and grown apart but are now ready to go out on the town to create some fresh hell in London tonight.

They have chosen each other again after almost ten years. It makes all the difference.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The apology song does have lyrics! You'll get 'em next chapter.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You get the lyrics to Louis’s apology song in this one. It’s a lyrical mash-up of my own creation, of “If I Could Fly” and “Where Do Broken Hearts Go.” And now there's an actual audio version of it, thanks to the incredible @be-brave13! Here's the link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hPACXHJTlJ4&feature=youtu.be. Listen and weep with me because it's gorgeous beyond belief.

 

Niall, Zayn, Liam, and Louis spend one more day-- the day after the last show of Liam’s tour-- in each other’s company, relaxing poolside with drinks at Liam’s mansion in Surrey. It’s easy, lazy time, splashing each other in the sunshine and laughing about everything. But real life can’t wait forever-- Liam and Niall have meetings in LA to get back to, Zayn is working on a series for an exhibition coming up soon-- so they decide to go their separate ways, at least for now, with promises to get in touch again soon.

Niall offers Louis a ride on his jet, dropping him off in New York before flying to California, but Louis declines. Real life will have to wait just a little longer for him. Instead of flying back right away, he books a commercial flight to New York for five days later, rents a car, and drives out to Doncaster to surprise his family. Niall had floated the idea offhand the night they’d flown to London, and it had stuck with Louis. It’s been too long since he’s been home.

As he’d expected, the reaction from his family is instantaneous and loud enough to bring several neighbors to their windows, wondering about the commotion. Jay calls Lottie at once, while clutching Louis against her chest, to convince her to fly over too, have a proper family reunion. Louis can hear Lottie grumbling that it’s not _her_ fault Louis never tells her anything in advance, but within the next couple of hours, she’s booked a flight coming in the next morning, called in sick from work, and left her children with her husband. Doris and Ernest each take to one of Louis’s legs, hollering at each other over who gets to play with him first. Fizzy, Daisy and Phoebe fill in around the edges, dragging Louis to the couch and interrogating him on every subject they can think of. Jay’s already in the kitchen, cooking up a storm, and Dan is doing his best to get out of work early.

It feels a lot like Louis is standing in the eye of a raucous, overbearing storm, but in his heart of hearts, he’s missed the chaos. His life has gotten too quiet. So he lets the noise soak in-- oohs and aahs at Doris’s pictures, lets Ernest drag him and all his sisters outside to kick around the football. Jay keeps saying she can’t believe it, she can’t believe he’s really here, and Louis resolves to be better at this from now on. He swears up and down on a stack of Fizzy’s _Hello!_ magazines that he’ll be back for both Thanksgiving and Christmas this year. The time with his family is restorative: it's nice to be fussed over by his mother, to sleep in his old bed, to eat with his siblings and catch up with their lives and read the little ones stories at bedtime.

Five days fly by too quickly, and the goodbyes are bittersweet. But Eleanor is waiting at the airport to pick him up when he lands at JFK, and hugging her feels like its own kind of homecoming, especially after such a long, eventful ten days apart.

“Hey, babe,” she says, kissing his cheek and promptly wiping her lipstick away. “You want to sleep first, or skip right to telling me everything?”

Grinning, Louis opts for the latter, on the condition that it happens over breakfast. So they go out for waffles, Eleanor’s treat, and he fills her in on the whirlwind that began with calling Niall that Monday. She is an exceptional audience, letting her expressive face do all the talking until he’s finished, caught up to the present.

“You’ve had quite a time of it,” she says at last, spearing a chunk of waffle on her fork. “How are you feeling about it now?”

Louis considers. “I feel...good?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?” Her eyes sparkle.

“Honestly, I don’t know,” Louis says. “Both, I suppose. I’m telling you I think this is what it’s like to feel good. To be...busy, and happy. Ish.”

“Happyish is an excellent start.” Eleanor’s eyes crinkle with fondness. “I really am so proud of you, Lou. Doing everything you’ve done the last few days took a lot of guts.”

“It didn’t even feel like something I _did_ , exactly,” Louis muses. “It kind of...all fell together.”

“But you gave yourself the push to start. That’s important.” She takes the last bite of her waffle, leans forward to give Louis a shrewd, interested look. “So. What are you going to do now?”

“Catch up on sleep, for one thing. I feel like I barely got a wink since Niall whisked me away to London. Unpack my suitcase. Hunt the urban wilderness for takeout.”

“What about the rest of it?” Her tone is meaningful, a little careful.

“I’ll call Taylor tonight, tell her I want a meeting this week.”

“And Harry?”

Eleanor’s voice is soft, but Louis’s stomach still lurches into a cartwheel at just the sound of Harry’s name.

“I’ve got some ideas about what to do with him, too.” Louis clears his throat, braves a smile.

“Well, if you ever want to talk about any of it, you know I’m here,” she says. “Want to do dinner tonight? Pizza picnic on your bed or something?"

“Yes, please. Except-- I’m done with _Gossip Girl_ now.” Louis sighs dramatically. “We’ll have to watch something else.”

“We could finally get around to _Downton Abbey_ ,” Eleanor suggests.

“Or...we could get acquainted with _Teen Wolf_.” Louis waggles his eyebrows, eliciting her giggle.

“We can always do a double feature.” Eleanor puts her hand over his on the table, squeezes twice. “It’s good to have you back, Lou. And it’s even better to see you happy-- ish.”

“Thanks, El. For everything.” He flips their hands so his is on top of hers, his thumb gentle against her wrist. “You really are the best. You know that, right?”

Her answering smile is like sunshine-- and it feels good, making her smile like that. She’s done so much for him, kept him employed and somewhat whole all these years. Seeing his bandmates and his family now has reminded him powerfully how many roles she’s had to play for him, how much her endlessly patient support has meant to him. When they leave the cafe, he snakes an arm around her waist, holds her close as they walk. Presses a kiss to her temple, hopes it all lets on somehow, in some small way, how much he loves her. She seems to understand, hugging him tightly when they reach her car, sighing into the curve of his neck. She drives him home, tells him she’ll see him later.

He is even better than his word when he enters the apartment-- unpacks his backpack, puts on a load of laundry, takes out the garbage, changes his sheets. With a pang, moves his living room furniture back to where it was before Harry Styles ever tried his hand at interior decoration. Louis even does a little cleaning, dusting off the shelves and straightening his many picture frames and running a Swiffer down the floor, cringing at what it picks up. This, too, is something he needs to be better at. He actually feels good when he’s tidied up a bit, when he gets into bed on clean sheets after a quest to slay several bloated demons.

He really is trying. Trying to make things right again. He decides not to wait until the evening to call Taylor, sends her a text requesting the meeting instead, and falls asleep with the phone still in his hand.

\--

Taylor agrees to meet Louis the next day at three o’clock, same studio. He arrives early, nervous but sure. Nathan, Taylor’s producer, isn’t here this time. It’s just Louis and Taylor, who is as friendly and polite as ever but nonetheless seems confused about why this meeting was called.

“I was actually planning on scheduling a rehearsal with you and the band at the end of the week,” she says, pulling up a chair for both of them. “What’s going on?”

Louis’s gut clenches. “It’s about ‘Home.’”

“Okay.”

“I think Harry was right. I think your new arrangement changed the song in ways I am not comfortable with.”

There, it’s out. He’s said it-- a little rushed, his cheeks a little flushed, but calmly and professionally. Like last time, Taylor arches an eyebrow.

“I told you why it had to be that way,” she says. “I need it to fit with my album.”

“But that’s the thing. The only thing I’m responsible for here is the song I’m putting mine and Harry’s names on. And if the way we wrote it compromises what you’re trying to say on the album, then...well, we’d rather you didn’t use the song than compromise what _we_ were trying to say.”

Now Taylor really is astonished-- and defensive.

“Again, it’s like I said before, the changes had nothing to do with me not liking what you’d written. I spoke to several different people about the arrangement for that song, and we all thought it was a good compromise between the demo you made and the kind of material we want to sell.”

“Well, then I suppose the question becomes-- what would you do if you weren’t trying to sell this?” Louis asks.

“That...is irrelevant,” Taylor says. “We _are_ trying to sell this. That’s the whole point.” She pauses, squints like she’s trying to weigh the right words to throw at him. “Listen--  I’m a woman, and I’m over the age of twenty-five, and I was supposed to be in retirement. My label never fails to remind me what kind of a risk they’re taking with me and this record. We need to hit it out of the park in order for me to ever show my face in this industry again. This _has_ to sell. There’s no other way.”

Louis sighs, wincing because he knows, he remembers. He remembers the high-stakes game of poker a new album felt like-- all his cards out in the open, hoping no one would call a bluff. But he presses on: “Why go through all the trouble to recruit me for this project, if you’re not even going to keep my work intact?”

Taylor sighs, clearly getting impatient. “I thought it would be good for me. Collaborating with someone else, someone who wasn’t paid to be a part of my team. Someone who could give me a different perspective, musically.”

“But?”

“But, I went to L.A. for a meeting with my producers, and they told me in no uncertain terms that there is a particular formula for making successful records, and I had to make friends with it if I ever intended this project to get off the ground.” Her eyes are so blue, staring him down-- a delicate, cornflower shade, but fierce with intensity, the homemade-lemonade-pouring, big-hugs-by-the-elevator Taylor Swift nowhere to be found in the determined set of her jaw. “And I’m _going_ to get it off the ground, Louis. The album is nearly finished and everyone involved with it has high expectations for it-- and for ourselves.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Louis says. “But that’s the thing about formulas, isn’t it? One size never does quite fit all.”

“So what do you propose I do, exactly?” Taylor asks, steely with purpose.

Louis finds he likes her a lot more when she’s like this, in warrior mode rather than fairy godmother mode. Despite himself, a smile takes root.

“I propose that you trust me for a few minutes,” he says. “Can you do that?”

To her credit, her face is clear of skepticism or ulterior motive. She simply says, “All right. But no promises.”

Louis nods. “I can work with that.”

He leads her into the recording booth, where he pulls forward the keyboard already sitting in the back of the space. Taylor makes to check the settings in the other room so it records properly, but Louis stops her, takes out his phone and puts on the voice memos. They sing to his phone, Louis accompanying them on the keyboard, her soprano blending well with his naturally high tenor. And with the grounded delicacy of the piano, the way the harmonies glow and weave together like fairy lights, they create the kind of synergy that seems to swell and fill up the whole room, that makes the hair on the back of their necks stand on end. He knows she feels it too, hears the satisfied smile in the way she sings the second chorus, in the way her voice soars for the last note.

“What do you think?” he asks her, already knowing what her answer will be.

“I think you and Harry were onto something here.” Taylor sighs, simultaneously content and troubled.

“I don’t know what’s on the rest of your album,” Louis says. “I don’t know how this would or wouldn’t fit with what you’re trying to do. But if you want this song, and if you want to perform it together at your livestream, then we need to do it the way we just did. It’s the only way.”

He can pinpoint the exact moment she relents, the resignation in those blue eyes that still never lose their vivacity.

“I think we might be able to work something out,” she says at last, and Louis has to exert a herculean effort to keep himself from cheering.

He is about to thank her, but then she smiles slightly, asks him, “Do you want to hear the rest of the record? I’d like to get your thoughts on it, if you’re not busy right now.”

Louis can’t pretend he isn’t astonished, eyebrows arched high. But he’s also rather touched. It’s been a long time since he’s been in a position for anyone to ask him for his musical expertise.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’d be honored.”

\--

“I knew you’d be a good pick,” Taylor confides later in the evening, over the pizza they finally thought to order to the studio at nine o’clock. “My manager was all, retired this and has-been that, but it was such bullshit. I don’t really believe in the idea of has-beens.”

“No?”

“Nope.” She smacks her lips in a way that reminds him of Niall, somehow. “I believe that talent is talent, and it’s never too late to start over again.” She pauses. “Hey, what are you working on right now? You want to be one of my opening acts on tour? I haven’t made final decisions on that yet.”

Louis nearly chokes on his pizza.

“You can’t be serious,” he says, eyes watering.

“I am,” Taylor says with a grin. “I can add ‘Home’ to the set list then.”

“Who else are you considering?”

“Well, Ed Sheeran’s still on tour, but I was talking to him this week about whether or not he’d be interested,” Taylor says. “Do you know him? He’s brilliant.”

Louis just throws his head back and laughs.

“You are something else, Swift,” he says, wiping tears from his eyes. “Tell you what, if Ed says yes, I’m in too.”

“Cheers, Tomlinson.” Taylor raises her pizza slice, and the two of them toast. “I’ll keep you posted.”

\--

Eleanor almost doesn’t know what to do with herself when Louis tells her, driving straight from Taylor’s studio to her apartment. She knocks the wind from his body with her hug, even pops open a bottle of champagne and pours them both generous helpings.

“I told you everything would be all right, Lou,” she says. “I told you it would all work out. Opening for Taylor Swift, _fuck_!” She almost spills champagne down her front in her enthusiasm. “Everything’s going your way now, eh?”

“Well...maybe not everything,” he corrects her quietly.

Eleanor winces. “Right. Sorry.” She sets down her glass, scoots closer to him on the couch, an arm around his shoulder. “But that’ll work it too, I know it. Have you tried calling him yet?”

“Not yet, no. Doubt he’d take my call, either.”

“You thought the same about Niall,” Eleanor points out. “Just call him. Or text him, or go by his bakery, or whatever you want. You can tell him about Taylor changing the song back.”

“Maybe.” His tone is purposely noncommittal.

“Do you know if he’s coming to the livestream?”

“He was invited. But he probably won’t go now.”

“You two need to _talk_ ,” she says pointedly. “It wasn’t just the song he was upset about.”

“I know. It was the Hamilton comment too.”

“Louis.” She picks up her champagne glass with her free hand, drinks some and offers it to him. “Do you really need me to spell it out for you?”

Louis sighs heavily, drains the rest of her champagne glass and pushes his own towards her. “No, you don’t. I just...don’t know how to promise him anything.”

“Would being his boyfriend really be the worst thing in the world?” Eleanor asks. “He likes you as a person. You like him as a person. Romantic time with someone you like, plus regular sex, is a good and positive thing.”

“Taylor wrote this song that we were working on today,” Louis says, “where she goes, _so it’s going to be forever, or it’s going to go down in flames._ And...it’s crude, but I keep thinking about it, because she’s not wrong. When you’re all in, those _are_ your two choices. And neither of us is the type for a fuck and run. And I don’t know how to promise him forever, nor do I want to resign myself to going down in flames.”

“Or-- you could just promise him right now, and take it slow, and give yourselves a chance to see how it goes.” Eleanor pours them both more champagne, takes a deep sip of hers. “Flames and forevers are all relative. You won’t know until you try.”

“Well, it’s all moot anyway. He doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore.” Louis grimaces as he gulps down his glass of champagne in one go.

“Call him,” Eleanor repeats, before neatly changing the subject, cutting off Louis’s protests before he can even articulate them.

\--

The next morning, Taylor announces on her various social media platforms that the livestream event will take place in exactly one week. The news media is already all over it, particularly the “special surprise guest” that she has left unnamed as of now. Louis shudders over his breakfast cereal as he scrolls Twitter for the reactions, remembering that he will now have to deal with the press again, the peanut gallery’s raucous shouting over his song and everything about him. Yet, as the morning goes on, it’s not the cruel quirks of the entertainment industry that ultimately linger on his mind.

He wonders if Harry has seen the announcement. For that matter, he wonders if Harry has seen the media’s two-day freak-out over the group selfie Liam posted. That would have been hard to miss-- but he might have. Or he might not have cared.

Louis makes it three days-- four days before the livestream-- before he relents. Eleanor is right, as usual. He needs to fix this, or at least start to. A text feels too impersonal, and Harry might not answer a phone call, so Louis resolves to set an early alarm, drive up to Knead to Know just before it opens. His stomach squirms with deep discomfort at the idea, but he knows in his heart of hearts that it’s what needs to be done. This is a conversation that should most likely happen in person. Whatever happens will happen, but Louis has to try.

The bakery opens at eight, so Louis is standing in front of the door, staring at the little rainbow heart on the window, at 7:54 in the morning. Gemma is the one to let him in, though she frowns slightly when she sees him.

“Louis.” She clears her throat, crosses her arms. Her mouth-- so like Harry’s, large and lovely and usually smiling-- is pursed with unhappiness. “This is a surprise.”

“I know.” He steps inside the bakery with her, shoulders curled inward. “I, um. I’d like a quick word with Harry, if I could?”

“I’ll ask him,” Gemma says, “but he might say no.”

“I understand.”

Gemma’s face softens at this, but her arms remain crossed defensively as she goes in the back to fetch Harry. Louis’s heart is in his throat, stomach tortured with waiting-- made even worse when he sees that Gemma had framed and hung the picture of the three of them from that Sunday morning Louis came here, their three faces cheerful and bathed in sunshine. He’s still staring at it when Harry appears behind the counter.

Louis whirls around to face him, eyes wide. Harry does not come to the front of the shop, preferring to keep the counter as a physical barrier between them. He’s wearing his pink-and-yellow apron again, his curls swept up in a bun and hair-net, but his eyes are somber, his mouth pursed like Gemma’s was. He stands, lanky and a little hunched with his hips against the counter, not leaning forward but not shying back either.

Seeing him again after so many days is a relief, but bereft of his usual sparkle-- seeing him so cautious with his guard up-- floods Louis with acute guilt.

“Hi,” he manages, taking a couple of hesitant steps forward.

“Hi, Louis. What can I do for you?”

“Just, um...how have you been?”

“Busy,” Harry says.

“Great. That’s...great.”

Louis cringes at himself, at how transparently awkward he is. Harry doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even move-- just waits patiently for Louis to get to his point. Louis shoves his hands in his pockets, tries to hold his ground.

“I, uh...I didn’t just come here to ask you that. I also wanted to apologize to you, Harry. I was bang out of order about-- about that book, and I spoke out of anger, and I’m sorry.”

A blotchy pinkness emerges across Harry’s cheeks. “It’s...it’s fine, it’s all right,” he mumbles, averting his eyes.

“No, it’s not. And-- and I’m sorry about the other things too.” The words come out rushed and a little breathless. “I know it’s no excuse, but I honestly didn’t mean anything by not answering your text. I was distracted by the _Teen Wolf_ shoot, the hours were long and the set was chaos--”

“It really doesn’t matter anymore,” Harry interrupts. He isn’t curt, exactly, but there is a tired finality to his tone that sends Louis’s stomach into the base of his spine. “I mean, I accept your apology, I just-- I came on way too strong, and I see that now.”

“I-- it’s not--”

“Louis, relax, it’s fine.” Harry makes a brave attempt at a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “We’re fine. _I’m_ fine. And the song is yours to do with as you please, if that’s what you were worried about. Our work is done and you don’t have to do...all this.”

“I’m not here because of that.” Louis runs an anxious hand through his hair. “I-- I thought a lot about what you said, about fighting for what we made, and--”

“It’s okay.” Harry’s voice sounds like a blanket worn frayed and thin. “I know you’ll do what you think is best.”

Louis’s throat feels raw. “Are you coming to the livestream?”

Harry shrugs, hands helpless at his sides. “I...don’t know.”

“Please come. Please?”

Harry’s eyes-- usually a bright, sprightly green-- have a haunted look about them as he considers this. But Louis holds his gaze determinedly, almost desperately, until Harry sighs in defeat.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says.

“Okay. Okay, yes, thank you.” Louis’s face grows hot. “But, um...I do hope you come. Taylor’s people can send you a car.”

“I’ll think about it.” And Harry sounds like he means it, eyebrows pinched into a slight frown.

“Right. Well, that’s really all I came here to say…”

“Can I get you a cupcake or something?” Harry asks. “On-- on the house, of course.”

“No, no.” Louis swallows thickly, mouth already dry at the thought of that buttercream frosting. “It’s all right. But thank you. I’ll just...go, now.”

Harry bites down hard on his lower lip, brow furrowed even deeper, as Louis, ready to die of embarrassment, ducks his head down and walks towards the door. He is just about to go outside, slip into his car and possibly bang his head against the steering wheel because the amount of awkwardness in this room could kill a man-- but Harry says, “Wait,” right as Louis’s hand closes on the door handle.

“Hmm?” He turns to look back, the door still open behind him.

Harry seems nervous about his own daring, the tension rife in his shoulders, in the set of his jaw. But he clears his throat, relaxes his expression a little, and says, “I, um. I saw that you and your bandmates took a picture together at Liam’s concert?”

Louis’s stomach swoops like he missed a step running down the stairs. “Yeah. Yeah, we did.”

The ghost of a smile-- soft, almost proud-- twitches at the corners of Harry’s mouth. “Good for you. I’m glad.”

Louis wants to thank him, wants to say anything at all, but no words make themselves available. Instead, he offers Harry a crooked smile of his own and disappears through the bakery doors, hurrying to the safety of his car-- where he does indeed rest his forehead against his steering wheel, trying and failing at deep, calming breaths. His are shallow and distressed, a long way from calm. It takes him several minutes before he feels prepared to drive himself anywhere.

He considers calling Eleanor-- considers calling Liam, Zayn, or Niall, too, since they’re all options again-- but in the end, he doesn’t call any of them. Their love and advice have gotten Louis this far at least, to a superficial truce that nonetheless aches down to his bones. Now, there’s nothing else anyone can say or advise that will mend what’s already been broken. Louis did his best, and Harry exercised his right to keep Louis at a distance.

The only thing left for Louis to do now is to make sure he does Harry’s work on “Home” justice during Taylor’s livestream-- hope that Harry will be there to see it in person. Because he stands by what he told Liam in London: this isn’t the one where his apology composition is the magic fix-all for the feelings that were hurt. This isn’t the one where saving their song means saving themselves. Louis has said his piece, and now it’s done.

So he puts himself back together with clumsy hands, drives himself home, calls his mother, and has her and Fizzy talk him through making an omelet for breakfast without killing or seriously maiming himself. Fizzy is far too astonished when Louis manages it and reports his success, but it’s nonetheless a gratifying moment, when he turns the stove off and dances around the kitchen with the phone against his ear.

 _It’s going to be okay_ , Louis tells himself, as he eats his eggs and begins watching the pilot of _Teen Wolf_. _You aren’t alone. You’ll survive this, too._

As far as pep-talks go, it’s not his most creative. But it’s enough to carry him through the rest of the day without falling apart-- and that’s all he can ask for.

\--

The morning of the livestream dawns sunny and cheerful-- an idyllic spring day. Taylor won’t start until two o’clock, but Louis is expected to join her for lunch and a soundcheck at noon at the Four Seasons, where the livestream is being held. He’s awake too early out of nerves, spends more time than usual getting ready. Eleanor had told him the night before to wear something simple and classic, black skinny jeans with a blue button-down that brought out the blue of his eyes.

She offers to meet him for breakfast, so Louis catches a cab to the Starbucks roughly halfway between their apartments, orders himself a venti blonde roast because he’s too nervous to eat anything. While waiting for her, he calls home so that his siblings can wish him luck and double check the time of the livestream (because they all insist on staying awake for it, despite Jay’s express wishes)-- and when they hang up, he texts Liam, Zayn, and Niall on their newly-created group chat. He’s caught up in that rapidfire conversation when Eleanor arrives and ruffles his hair on her way to the counter to order coffee.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, when she returns to his table with coffee and a muffin for them to share.

“Ready,” Louis says.

Because he is-- he’s rehearsed, well-rested, and happy about what he’s performing. Eleanor has scheduled some press interviews for after the livestream with journalists she’s personally vetted, but she’s also scheduled dinner reservations for them to celebrate when it’s over. He knows what his day is going to look like and he feels good about it. Eleanor grins, bites off a piece of muffin and dips it in her coffee.

“I’m excited,” she admits. “This should be fun.”

“I’ve heard the single she’s performing today. Everyone’s going to go ape-shit bananas over it. You’ll be hearing it on the radio from today until the end of time.”

“Do you like it?”

“Yes, actually. It should be a great show. I just...well.” Louis sighs, chews moodily on a bite of muffin. “There’s only one hitch I’m concerned about.”

Eleanor understands immediately, eyebrows knitting together. “Well, you did say Taylor ordered him a car already, to make sure he came.”

“Yeah, but there’s no guarantee he’ll play along.”

“I think he will,” she says.

“Why?”

“Because he’s mad about you.” Eleanor bops Louis’s nose with her piece of muffin. “You asked him to come, so he’ll come. Historically, there’s a precedent for that.”

“Cheers.” He toasts his coffee cup with hers, swallows down a big gulp.

They finish up the muffin and their respective coffees, leaving plenty of time to take a walk-- even a quick pass through their favorite bit of Central Park, arm in arm, enjoying the sunshine-- before piling into Eleanor’s car and heading out to the Four Seasons. The hotel is abuzz with activity, masses of fans hollering and waving signs, hoping for a glimpse of Taylor. Louis and Eleanor slip through with help from the hotel’s security staff and meet Taylor for lunch on the rooftop balcony. She is, as ever, delighted to see them, welcomes them eagerly to the table set up for her husband and three daughters as well. The small talk is nice, and the food is even better.

Soon enough, Louis, Eleanor, Taylor, and Taylor’s family are swept up to the floor below, where the livestream will be filmed indoors. There are at least two conference rooms designated for final hair and make-up touch-ups-- more for Taylor than for Louis, though he too finds himself attacked with a contour brush or two. The main event is set to take place in the ballroom, which has been set up with a piano for Louis, two microphones for both of them, a video screen where Taylor will debut her music video and about a hundred chairs arranged in two sections facing the stage. The press is getting ready around the edges, directed to their places by Taylor’s communications team, and a select group of friends, family members, and fans are taking their seats as well. Louis tries not to search that crowd for curly hair and green eyes, but can’t help scanning the aisles anyway, hope unwavering in his chest.

But he isn’t there. Louis has do his soundcheck, then wait outside the ballroom at the start of the livestream until Taylor’s manager, Scott, gives him the cue to enter-- but until the last moment, Louis checks, and does not see Harry. Eleanor, who is waiting outside with him and will sneak in through the back when it’s Louis’s time to go in, hugs him tightly in wordless sympathy.

She and Louis watch the start of the livestream from inside another adjacent conference room with the rest of Taylor’s team. She’s effortless in front of the cameras, glowing and radiant, blowing kisses at the camera and waving hello to the audience. When she’s done showing the video, and the crowd is hysterical with excitement, she sits herself down on a stool in the middle of the stage to speak. Scott materializes beside Louis in the conference room, making him jump so badly he nearly knocks his own chair over, and leads him to the ballroom door so that he’s ready for his entrance.

Taylor makes her speech to her enraptured audience, talking earnestly about comebacks and second chances. Then, before Louis knows it, she's introducing him--

“Now, I’d like to welcome our special guest-- a wonderfully talented musician, who’s co-written a beautiful duet for the album that we are now going to perform for you-- Louis Tomlinson!”

Scott pushes Louis towards the door, and every eye in that room, every camera lens, turns to watch him. For a moment, he doesn’t breathe, focuses on putting one foot in front of the other. Taylor waits until he is halfway to the stage before she gets up and rushes towards him, envelops him in a hug. He manages to smile at the audience, wave vaguely in the direction of the press, and let Taylor lead him to the piano bench, where he gratefully sits down. The spotlight is a little bit blinding in his face as he prepares himself to play. Taylor is standing in front of a mic stand adjacent to piano where Louis has a clear line of sight on her.

They decided, for this performance, to forego a larger band and stick to just their naked vocals accompanied by piano, like that afternoon in the studio. He and Taylor make eye contact across the piano, she nods to let him know she’s ready, and he begins to play the opening notes.

The duet is as powerful here, in front of this room and all the world, as it was in the isolated intimacy of the studio. Taylor’s voice is sweet but strong, carrying Louis’s harmonies cleanly and precisely. And he likes singing it this way with her-- has enjoyed it every time they’ve done it during rehearsal, too-- but there is still a pang of melancholy coloring his tone, even in the chorus’s major key. He hears Taylor, but he feels Harry in these words, his earnestness and steady hand. Harry, who rearranged Louis’s living room furniture and then his whole heart, because he only came over as Nick Grimshaw’s surrogate but left as one of the most important people to walk into Louis’s life in a long time.

Louis and Taylor deserve the applause, as Louis plays the piano outro and smiles wide for the camera-- but this is Louis and Harry’s song. And Louis misses Harry something terrible, as he gets up from the bench, takes Taylor’s hand, and does a quick bow. The audience is still on its feet, clapping and hollering their support, but Louis’s eyes are back scanning the crowd again, looking for the reaction of only one person.

And-- Louis’s breath catches in his throat-- there he is. Harry. Curly hair, green eyes, black jeans. Standing too, an enormous dimpled smile lighting up his face from the inside out, clapping even more enthusiastically when his gaze catches Louis’s.

Louis was supposed to stand next to Taylor while she wrapped up the livestream, but he no longer cares about a single thing besides getting to Harry as fast as he can. He leaves the ballroom through the same side door he entered from, blowing past an irate Scott and checking the hallway to see if Harry got the hint to join him. And, by some miracle, there he is, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste to leave the front of the ballroom, join Louis in the hall.

Louis takes him to the only place he can think of to get any privacy-- the men’s room on the other side of the floor. He rushes inside, lets Harry in behind him, locks the door and drags him under the fluorescent lights over the sinks so he can look at Harry properly, all six feet of him, the jeans and the curls and the flowery shirt, haphazardly buttoned.

“You’re here,” Louis blurts out before he can stop himself.

“Yes, I am!” Harry confirms, giddy.

“So you came in the car we sent?”

“Yes.”

“Because you wanted to come.” He has to check, has to know.

“Of course. You asked me to.”

It takes all the restraint Louis has not to crash-land on top of Harry in an iron-tight hug. “Yeah. I did. Because I wanted you to hear it-- the way it was supposed to be heard.”

“You got Taylor to come to her senses.” Harry can’t stop smiling-- such a contrast from the tight, miserable awkwardness from that morning in the bakery. “I knew you could. And I can’t tell you how happy I am that you did.”

“You said I had to fight for us, and what we made.” Louis’s smile becomes a little shy, a little uncertain again. “So...I did.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this when you came to see me?”

“Because,” Louis says, toeing the bathroom tile with the tip of his sneaker, “I wanted you to...to _want_ to forgive me. You know? Like, if you came to this thing, I’d know for sure. Know that I still had a shot to fix everything.”

“Lou…” It is such a relief, suddenly, to hear that nickname again, infused with all of Harry’s tenderness. But Louis stops him, pulling his phone out of his pocket with quivering hands, opening the app for his voice memos.

“I told myself that if you came, if you wanted to see me still, then I’d play you this.” His hand struggles to hold the phone steady, so he places it on the counter between two sinks where both of them can see it. “I, um...I wrote it in London, when I went to see Liam. For you.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It’s, um. It’s called ‘For Your Eyes Only.’”

He plays the recording before he can overthink it anymore-- the same recording from the storage room at the O2, sleep-deprived and jet-lagged and pure. The notes are confident, Louis’s voice raw and controlled--

_If I could fly, I’d be coming right back to you_

_Counted all my mistakes and there’s only one_  
Standing out from the list of the things I’ve done  
All the rest of my crimes don’t come close  
To the look on your face when I let you go

 _Pay attention, I hope that you listen_  
Because I’ve let my guard down  
Right now I’m completely defenseless,  
Wrote a song with the words you spoke—  
Yeah, it took me some time, but I’ve figured out  
How to fix up a heart that I’ve let down

 _Now I’m searching every lonely place_  
Every corner calling out your name  
Trying to find you, but I just don’t know  
Where do broken hearts go?  
Where did your broken heart go?  
  
_Are you sleeping, baby, by yourself_  
Or are you giving it to someone else?

 _Trying to find you, tell you I’m ready—_  
For your eyes only, I’ll show you my heart  
For your eyes only, I’ll show you my heart  
For your eyes only, I’ll show you my heart  
Battered but mending  
Where did your broken heart go?

 _I’ve got scars, even though they can’t always be seen_  
And pain gets hard – but I think I might  
Give up everything, just ask me to

_Tell me now, tell me now  
Could you ever love me again, love me again? _

_For your eyes only, I’ll show you my heart_  
For your eyes only, I’ll show you my heart  
For your eyes only, I’ll show you my heart  
Babe, it’s already yours

_If I could fly, I’d be coming right back home to you_

The voice memo stops there, almost too abruptly throwing them back to silence. Louis, who had been picking at his thumbnail through the song to avoid staring at Harry, looks up shyly to gauge Harry’s reaction-- and finds Harry practically in tears, his irises such a soft green under the harsh bathroom light, shiny and wet and overflowing. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, clearly trying to pull himself together.

“God. Lou.” His breath hitches on Louis’s name. “You really wrote that for me?”

Louis nods, the pressure building up behind his eyes. “Yes.”

“I will never believe you again, when you tell me you’re not good with lyrics.” Harry attempts to sound scolding, but he just chuckles weakly, smile almost unbearably fond. “It’s so beautiful. Thank you. _Lou_."

He doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands; for one wild second, Louis thinks Harry will pull him in for a hug, maybe even a kiss. But he doesn’t do that. He takes a step towards Louis, close enough that the tips of their sneakers press up against each other. His hands cup Louis’s shoulders, running his thumbs across the joints of his arms and sending an explosion of chills down Louis’s spine.

“‘Home’ was about you and for you from the start, you know.” His voice is rough, barely above a whisper-- each word like a tiny shock to Louis’s heart. “You probably figured that out a long time ago, but it’s true. It was crazy, and probably more than a little overbearing, but...I just wanted you to let me in.”

“I have.” Louis’s eyes flicker to Harry’s mouth-- such a vivid pink, soft, close enough to kiss. “I really-- I gave you whatever I knew how to give. But it was so much so fast, I just got lost. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to catch up. I was scared.” He hesitates for a heartbeat. “I still am.”

“I understand.” Harry’s hands run up and down Louis’s arm, like Louis is a creature whose wings are about to take flight. “I get it, I do. But I do hope you know now, that you don’t have to be afraid of me.”

Louis wants to nod, wants to confirm that this is something that’s finally begun to sink in for him-- but instead he finds himself on his toes, pressing his lips to that lovely pink mouth, delighting in the soft give of his kiss. His arms are around Harry’s neck, fingers tugging victoriously at those gorgeous curls, and he lets Harry sweep him off his feet-- literally-- lifting him so that he’s sitting on the bathroom counter between two sinks, his legs wrapped snugly around Harry’s narrow hips. It’s a little intoxicating, being above Harry for once, surging downwards to deepen the kiss. And Harry seems perfectly content being handled, practically melts as Louis’s fingers massage his scalp. What begins so gently quickly degenerates into messy, open-mouthed kisses, greedy hands, Harry’s hips pressed flush against Louis’s crotch as he grinds back, struggling for purchase.

“Can I take you home with me this time?” Harry shouldn’t sound so innocent when he’s working so torturously on Louis’s ear-- kitten licks, just the suggestion of teeth. “Haven’t even shown you my place yet.”

“I have-- press--” Louis sighs into a whine, as Harry works his way down Louis’s neck, sucking the beginning of a spectacular bruise on his throat.

“After press, then?”

“Yeah, yeah, okay-- God, no, not there, the cameras will see--”

“Good.” Harry smacks an affectionate kiss upon his handiwork before continuing. “Want everyone to see.”

“ _Fuck,_  I’m gonna have to ask El to make sure it’s all print interviews.”

“Or you could wear a scarf…”

“It’s May.”

Harry’s low chuckle is even more appealing when it comes slightly muffled from Louis’s throat. “Okay. Print interviews, then.” A pause. “You nervous?”

“A little,” Louis admits.

“Can’t have that, can we.” He suddenly grabs Louis’s crotch through his jeans, the breadth of how much Harry’s large hand can encompass between his legs going straight to Louis’s dick. “I think you need to...relax.”

“You are the devil,” Louis groans, burying his face into Harry’s sternum, feels his whole body seem to bounce with the up-and-down motion of Harry’s laugh.

“No, I’m not! I’m just the guy who likes you very much a lot, and wants you to feel good.”

“Yeah?” Louis lifts his head, meets Harry’s gaze. “Like...like my boyfriend, or something?”

The word tastes strange, almost a little forbidden, on Louis’s tongue-- but it’s like the match that burned down the whole forest, the way it lights Harry up from the inside out. “Ideally, yeah.” His eyes are as wide and round as coins. “Does that mean we’re boyfriends, then?”

Louis hears Eleanor in his head-- _would being his boyfriend really be the worst thing in the world?_ And right now, Harry standing between his legs with such joy in his face, the answer is obvious.

“Yes, I’d like to be-- but I want to take it slow. Not too much at once.” He rests his forehead on Harry’s, noses brushing together. “That sound okay to you?”

Harry considers. “Well, do I still get to do this?” He presses a bruising kiss to Louis’s mouth, his hand back on Louis’s crotch.

“Yeah, please, please do that.” Louis’s breath catches in his throat. “Don’t leave me hanging.”

“Mmmm.” Harry kisses Louis’s nose. “Would never leave you hanging, love.”

He helps Louis to his feet, makes quick work of both their jeans and walks Louis back towards the stall, somewhere with a wall to hold him against. They’re already so worked up that release is quick, both of them coming within seconds of each other, breaths hitched and eyes wild, like they’re teenagers in love with no stamina to speak of. But, Louis muses as they clean each other up and promptly return to the stall so Louis can kiss Harry senseless, that’s actually a wonderful thing-- like they make each other feel young and alive, setting the baggage aside because this feels good, and sweet, and right.

Their first time was heavy, emotionally charged with all the things they didn’t know how to say yet, but this time is easier-- all sunlight, no shadow. Because they know where they stand, know that they want each other in this way, in every way. Because they’re _boyfriends_ now-- and while that’s still an intimidating word, one Louis has never had occasion to use with anyone before, he is nonetheless determined to give it a try.

“Hey,” Louis says, breaking their kiss to grin at Harry. “What does a nosey pepper do?”

Harry beams. “What?”

“Gets jalapeno business.”

As expected, Harry bursts into giggles. “Which sister told you that one?”

“Fizzy, actually. She’s the third Tomlinson, so old enough to know better, but she still has a healthy appreciation for pun-based humor.”

“Thank her for me.”

“I’ll pass it along. Tell her my _boyfriend_ liked her joke.”

“I am going to wreck you when we get to my place,” Harry says by way of response, nuzzling his nose into Louis’s cheek. “Prepare yourself. So much wreckage.”

“Let me deal with the press first,” Louis says, stealing one more kiss. “Then I’m all yours.”

\--

Eleanor is waiting outside the bathroom door, when Louis finally unlocks it-- across the hall, a good distance away, but nonetheless waiting, arms crossed and smirk both fond and irritated.

“The reporters have been waiting to talk to you,” she says in lieu of a greeting. And, catching sight of the purple rose blooming on Louis’s neck-- “I’m guessing you want to stick to print, and pictures from your left side?”

“Love you, El.” He kisses her cheek, grins as she rolls her eyes.

“So, you’re good then?” she asks, leading him back into the ballroom.

“Yeah. Better than good.” He pauses. “Could we possibly move our celebratory dinner reservations to tomorrow instead of tonight, though? Something came up.”

Eleanor chuckles. “Thought it might have. Should I make it for two people, or three?”

Louis stops dead in the middle of the ballroom and hugs her. “Three, please,” he says over her shoulder.

“Three it is,” she says, laughing as she claps him on the back. “Now go do your damn interviews, everyone’s running late because of you.”

\--

Harry is chatting with Eleanor in the hallway when Louis finally extricates himself from the reporters-- and from Taylor, who had demanded exhaustive detail on why Louis left the livestream and what on earth that bruise on his neck was all about. Harry is mid-laugh with Eleanor about something she said, but when he sees Louis emerge, his smile somehow takes on new life, a sparkling happiness that makes Louis beam too, drives him straight into Harry’s arms.

“Hey, how’d it go?” Harry asks, arm protectively around Louis’s waist as he faces the two of them.

“It went well, I think,” Louis says. “They asked me the usual predictable type of stuff-- about writing the song, who I wrote with, how I felt about the event, what I thought of Taylor’s album. And, off the record, who gave me such a lovely purple gift after my performance.”

Eleanor chortles, while Harry beams without apology. “What’d you say?” he asks, nudging Louis with his hip.

“I said it was classified information. None of their business, is it? Though, I did have to tell Taylor. She was very pleased, by the way, and said to give you her love.”

“Well,” Eleanor says, clapping her hands together, “then that’s it for your obligations, Lou! You’re done for today, as far as I’m concerned. It should go without saying, but I’ll say it anyway-- I am so extraordinarily proud of you and everything you’ve accomplished.” She kisses his cheek. “Enjoy your day, babe. Call me tomorrow.”

“You’re the best, El. See you.”

She waves merrily, then disappears down the hall, leaving Louis alone with Harry. It takes some time for them to get on the elevator, with all of Taylor’s guests and the media crews trying to leave the floor at once, but within ten minutes, they are back on the ground floor and walking out to the front of the hotel, into the blinding May sunshine.

“To my apartment, then?” Harry asks. His arm has never left Louis’s waist, still holds him close.

“Yeah, let’s do it. We’ll order in from there.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“I didn’t drive here, so I don’t have my car.”

“That’s okay, I’ll call an Uber.”

Louis shoots Harry a look that could level Manhattan.

“ _What_ have I told you about Ubers? Hard pass.”

“And _I’ve_ told _you_ that they are just as safe, if not safer, than cabs,” Harry insists, though he’s grinning. “Not to mention cheaper.”

“I have money, Curly.”

“It’s the principle of the thing.”

“That’s exactly my point-- the principle of the thing,” Louis says. “Please let’s catch a cab. For my own peace of mind.”

“Do you trust me, Lou?” Harry asks.

Louis blinks at him like he doesn’t understand the question. “Yes. But that’s not the point-- it’s those ax-murdering Uber drivers I could do without--”

“Do you trust me?” Harry repeats.

Louis falls silent, frowning with considerable petulance. But Harry’s green eyes are patient, his thumb rubbing idle circles into Louis’s hip. New York City traffic rushes past them on the street, cars and yellow cabs and gray exhaust coloring the cityscape. Eventually, Louis sighs.

“Well, all right. We’ll take the damn Uber. But if this driver returns to your apartment tonight with an ax and takes you away from me, then what do I do? I just got you.”

Harry presses a kiss to Louis’s temple, uses his free hand to take his phone from his pocket and request the Uber. “You’ve still got me,” he assures Louis. “As long as you want me.”

Three weeks ago, Louis would have treated such an utterance as a warning-- almost a threat. But today it’s hard to feel anything but grateful, the sun golden and warm on his face.

“I’ll probably hold you to it,” he whispers into Harry’s ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand, here we are. At the end. I posted the whole thing at once, to save you the frustration of a WIP, so you never really had to wait for cliffhangers and whatnot, but I hope it’s been a wild ride for you nonetheless. It certainly has been for me, writing in fits and starts over so many months. Another round of applause for C (go send her love at @imooredlacuna on Tumblr!) because really, this fic would not exist without her patience. She's the best.
> 
> I know I’m guilty of not always reviewing the stories I’ve loved, but I’d like to humbly request, if you have the time and inclination, to leave me a few words before you click out of this window. As a writer, that is the loveliest possible thing you can do for me.
> 
> AS FOR THE EPILOGUE. I do have ideas about what goes on beyond this point, but I haven’t quite written an epilogue that I am happy with yet (though not for a lack of trying). It was going to be a year later from Harry’s point of view – but the muse isn’t cooperating at the moment. She wants a montage end credits sequence like the movie we were inspired by, but sadly, prose does not allow for such a thing. We are both sad and sorry for how things have turned out in this regard.
> 
> However, if you want to come say hello or otherwise ask me about headcanons for the future of my own fic (which I would be super happy to ramble about!), I can be found at @itsyouzaynie on Tumblr.
> 
> Otherwise, thank you so much for your time and I hope you enjoyed this!


End file.
